


To Roma, With Love

by Aoidos



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Child Abuse, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Drug Use, M/M, Rape/Non-con References, Underage Drinking, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-20
Updated: 2013-07-18
Packaged: 2017-12-15 15:09:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 46,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/850952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aoidos/pseuds/Aoidos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>underage!Eames is a gypsy living in poverty with his uncle when one day a strange American boy (underage!Arthur) joins their camp.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The term "gypsy" can have derogatory racist implications, but please know I used the word purely for clarification purposes i.e. it's the word most people recognize immediately.
> 
> I also use some jargon in this drabble, particularly in dialogue. If anyone is confused, I can put up a glossary at the end. Lemme know!
> 
> This is really more of a drabble than a full chapter, but I wanted to see if people would be interested in the concept before I continue. There's no smut in this chapter, but there will be if write more!

Eames never attended one of them fancy schools, but he knew a few things. First, if anyone called him a Gyppo, they was losing some teeth. Second, never bring a Gorjer — an outsider — to the camp. Three, never tell anyone about the camp or the coppers would come and raid the place like they had the Dale Farm gypsy camp in Essex.

 

The government was cracking down on their campsites, calling 'em "unsightly," if you can believe it. Like there was something _unsightly_ about people living together. What they meant was they thought it was _unsightly_ when the gypsies drank themselves delirious, fought, and stole from the Gorjers. But that's what happened when society threw people away, Eames always said. Where were they supposed to go? The government wouldn't be happy until they'd chased them into the sea.

 

There weren't safe places anymore — not even in France where 15,000 Romas just had their makeshift homes bulldozed and were sent packing, forced to carry their every possession as they wandered down the road to wherever.

 

And they called the _gypsies_ uncivilized.

 

Eames and his uncle moved south to Kent after the raid on Dale Farm, and if the coppers chased them to Kent, they'd move to East Sussex and then West Sussex, and make the wankers chase them forever because his old man had always said, "You don't need Big Bruvva to prove you is human."

 

His old man had been smart like that, but he died, so now Eames lived with his Uncle Davey, who was all right because he let Eames have beer and didn't hassle him when he stayed out late.

 

Their camp was small, which was good because it was less likely to attract unwanted attention. It was two campers — one for him and Davey and one for Loiza and her three sprogs. Then there were five shanties — huts constructed of cardboard and metal siding. They were set up way out in a field in a valley between two hills, mostly hidden from nosy Gorjers. Most of the other young men lived in the shacks, so they looked up to Eames because he was a man of standing in the camp, having the luxury of an actual vehicle to live in. 

 

Plus, he was undefeated in bare knuckle boxing, which is how he made his money. Davey occasionally hoofed it into town to rummage about in bins for things to sell, but Eames discovered early on he was a gifted fighter, so him and the boys would walk into town during fight nights and clean up. Eames was so good someone once said he could go pro, but then he'd have to leave Davey and his bruvvas at the camp, so Eames wasn't interested in any of that. He just wanted to make enough dosh for beer, fags, and occasionally Mickey D's.

 

That's how they lived — bare boned and every day like the last until one day a new camper rolled onto the ground. Eames had been down by the nearby creek, washing up, when he heard the engine and came flying up the hill, ready for a fight. Davey quickly intercepted him.

 

"Easy, lad. Easy," he warned, grabbing his arm.

 

"Who the fuck is that?" he shouted, eyes wild, already riled up and looking to smash something.

 

"Mate of mine, Eamesy. This is Roger," he said, nodding as a tall man with dark hair climbed out of the camper.

 

Behind him, a kid — 11, maybe 12 — wandered from the camper, looking scared and weak, Eames decided. He immediately didn't trust either of them because _wot the fuck_. They wasn't supposed to invite outsiders to their camp. Davey was breaking one of the rules and wasn't even sweating it.

 

"If he's a mate, how come I don't know him?" he asked, loud enough for the Gorjers to hear.

 

The kid fidgeted nervously and pushed his glasses up his nose — they were delicate and silver and Eames instantly knew these weren't his people. No gypsy could afford glasses or see a doctor. 

 

"I'm Roger and this is my son, Arthur," the tall man said in a fancy accent — American, Eames thought.

 

"What the fuck. They ain't even from here, Davey. _What the fuck_ ," he growled as his uncle grabbed him by the arm and dragged him away a few paces.

 

"Look 'ere, I'm not havin' it, Eames. You treat this man with respect. I owe 'im," 

 

By now, the whole camp was awake and gathered by the new vehicle, the younger kids climbing on each other's shoulders to see inside and probably look if there was anything good to steal. Eames turned back to the dad and kid and took inventory. They were both dressed nice with fancy boots, trousers, and shirts, and Eames suddenly felt self-conscious of his ratty sweater with the holes and stains, his scuffed shoes, and his crooked teeth.

 

These definitely weren't their people, but as the eldest male Davey ruled so he didn't have a say in the matter. Eames stormed toward their camper, banged up the steps, and slammed the door behind him to make his objections known.

 

***

He didn't emerge until that evening when he heard clamoring out back. Eames threw open the door, walked around the camper, and saw a group of his mates beating up the new kid. He started laughing and shaking his head because, _Christ_ , it hadn't even been a day and this poof was getting the piss kicked out of him. There was no way this kid was going to survive in their camp, he thought, feeling pretty self-righteous about the whole thing until he noticed the kid was _crying_ , for God's sake.

 

See, Eames had one more rule: don't pick fights with people weaker than you. 

 

"Oi! Break it up, you dilos," he shouted, grabbing them by the backs of their shirts and pulling them off the skinny kid.

 

His mates were laughing, flushed in the face, but willing to scatter, although one of them — Markos — looked angry because Eames was interrupting all the fun.

 

"Piss off," he spat, winding up to kick the kid, who was sprawled on the ground crying still.

 

Eames shoved him hard enough to knock the Roma on his arse, which only seemed to piss him off more because he scrambled to his feet again and rushed Eames like he meant to tackle the older boy. Eames simply pivoted and levelled him with a left hook across the jaw. That ended things quickly enough. Markos stumbled to his feet, cursing Eames and Eames's mother, before he sulkily retreated.

 

He shook out his hand before turning back to the kid, who was curled up in the mud, his nice trousers and shirt ruined from the scuffle. The kid — what was his name again? _Arthur –_ was covering his face, probably embarrassed from crying while getting pummelled.

 

"All right?" he asked, tilting his head a bit.

 

It was then that Arthur seemed to realize his attackers were gone and he was safe. He uncovered his face and sniffed, staring up at Eames, his hair wet and matted against his forehead and the sides of his faces. His nose had a gash across the bridge of it and his lip was split and bleeding slightly.

 

"They took my glasses," he said.

 

Eames spit on the ground, his heart hammering in his chest still from the brief fight with Markos. For a moment, he wondered why his saliva tasted like copper and he realized he must have bitten his tongue.

 

"I'll get 'em. Go home," he instructed, turning from the pathetic sight of Arthur trembling in the mud.

 

He didn't wait to see if the kid obeyed because he'd already turned from him and was walking over to Markos' shack where his mate lived with his aunt, brother, and sister. Ordinarily, a place of theirs size wouldn't shelter more than a single person, but the family made do sleeping side-by-side and working outside the hut when needed.

 

Eames politely knocked on the steel roof of the structure instead of just throwing back the blue tarp that served as the door. Luckily, he didn't have to deal with Markos' aunt because his friend was the one who parted the tarp and stuck his head outside.

 

"What you want?" he asked, frowning at Eames, his chin already blossoming with an ugly bruise.

 

Eames winced a bit and gripped his mate's jaw, turning his face toward him. Markos allowed it. He sighed and let go, feeling vaguely guilty. Mark was his mate and you weren't supposed to fight your mates.

 

"You take that kid's glasses?"

 

"Yeah, I'm gonna sell 'em in town," he grinned, pulling them from his pocket and waving them in front of Eames.

 

He simply snatched them from Markos' hand and moved to leave, but of course it couldn't be that simple. His friend flew out of the shack and made to grab for his treasure, but Eames held it out of range.

 

"Eames! Them's mine!"

 

"Actually, _technically_ speaking," he said because he knew talking proper something confused Markos and won him battles without having to use his fists. 

 

"Them's is Arthur's."

 

"So?" Markos cried, gaping at Eames in disbelief.

 

"So go steal somefing else, bruv," he concluded, leaving Markos at his back as he turned and headed over to Arthur's.

 

He knew the conversation was over and Markos wouldn't question his authority. Eames was the smartest kid in the camp, plus the best fighter. It was a dangerous combination and no one would doubt his actions. When he got to the camper, he banged on the door and waited. Eventually, the door opened a couple inches and he could see Arthur's bruised face.

 

"Here," he said, sticking the glasses through the space in the door.

 

Arthur stared at them for a moment before he quickly took the specs and put them on his face, probably making sure they weren't broken. He looked scared still and a little in awe when he looked to Eames.

 

"Th-thanks,"  he stammered and softly closed the door.

 

Gorjers. Fucked in the head, the whole lot of 'em.

 

***

He didn't see Arthur again for a few days until he was down by the creek, washing out his shirt and some socks in the water. When he looked up, the kid was standing by a tree, watching him curiously.

 

"Oi," Eames greeted, making Arthur jump. 

 

He waved to clarify he wasn't going to run over and start beating the kid up, and that seemed to relax him a bit. Arthur approached tentatively like a spooked doe, craning his neck a bit to see what Eames was doing. When he saw the clothing, he moved to sit on a large, flat rock by the stream. He had bruises spotting his face, which surprised Eames, because the damage hadn't looked that severe the other day. Maybe they blew up over night.

 

"All right?" he asked, wringing out his shirt and laying it on the ground to dry.

 

"Um, yeah. I'm okay," Arthur said, tugging the sleeves of his sweater over his hands and stretching out the cuffs.

 

It was chilly out, but Eames was used to it. He sat on the edge of the rock and rolled a cigarette, offering Arthur the bag of tobacco because Davey had said Arthur and his dad were all right, so he believed it. The kid shook his head and looked down, nervously picking at a thread on the hem of his trousers.

 

"The lads didn't mean nothin' by it. They was just havin' some fun," Eames explained, lighting his cigarette and taking a drag.

 

Arthur snorted disbelievingly.

 

"Fun. Right."

 

Eames chuckled at that and took another pull from his smoke, leaning back on his free hand so his shoulder bumped Arthur's. He felt the kid inhale sharply and go rigid, and in response Eames quirked a brow his way. He eyed the bruised profile of Arthur's face, taking in the sight of his swollen eye, puffy nose, and split lip. 

 

"I gotta teach you to fight," he laughed.

 

"Tell your friends to leave me the fuck alone," he grumbled, flushing with embarrassment.

 

"Oi, I'm joking. _Arthur_ ," he said, still laughing, reaching up to turn the kid's face toward him.

 

That's when the kid kissed him, surprising the hell out of Eames, though later he'd like to think he recovered quickly enough and set his smoke down on the rock before gripping the sides of Arthur's face. Eames had done this before — a few times, in fact. Once with a girl named Hannah at their old camp, and when that hadn't done anything for him, twice with men he'd met while in town. Those times had been much nicer, but they paled in comparison to snogging Arthur. He kissed him properly then, pushing his tongue into the kid's mouth and moaning when Arthur got with the program and did the same. His hands, moving of their own accord, slid 'round the kid's waist and picked up the hem there so he could touch his skin. Arthur flinched at the touch and Eames bit at the kid's lip before they separated, coaxing a little gasp from him. 

 

"Sorry," he whispered, dabbing lightly at where Arthur's lip had begun to bleed again. 

 

The kid was looking at him with glazed eyes. Eames eyed him thoughtfully before he furrowed his brow and smirked.

 

"What're you, like, ten?"

 

"I'm _fourteen_ ," Arthur hissed, obviously affronted.

 

"Yeah, well, I'm sixteen," Eames replied, releasing Arthur and picking up his fag to resume smoking.

 

"So? That's only two years," he seethed, ears red — the one Eames could see, anyway, where his dark hair was flipped behind it.

 

"You're sweet," he murmured, reaching up to brush his thumb across a battered cheekbone.

 

Arthur turned his head quickly and kissed his thumb. Eames stood then and tossed his smoke on the ground, stomping it out with his boot. He could feel the kid watching his every movement as he gathered his clothes and socks. He'd string them up by Markos' place where there was a clothesline so they'd dry faster.

 

"Tomorrow we're goin' to town to find some fights. You comin'?" he asked casually.

 

"Like…to fight people?" Arthur asked, sounding like he thought it was the worst idea in the world.

 

"Nah, I fight and get paid. The lads watch," Eames grinned, hoping Arthur would say yes. He liked to win when he had an audience.

 

The younger boy hesitated, glancing off toward his caravan.

 

"M'not supposed to…" he began, and Eames felt his stomach sink a bit.

 

"…but okay," Arthur concluded, smiling a little shyly and Eames could see a flash of dimples.

 

"Wicked," Eames grinned, shifting the clothes in his arms so he could carry them all, and turning to leave because he felt like he had the upper hand in the moment and it would be cool to leave without saying goodbye.

 

He could feel Arthur watching his back as he crossed the field and headed back to camp.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eames loves a good fight.

Arthur met them at the agreed upon location, the speed zone sign by the road.

 

When Eames and the lads walked up to him, Arthur was visibly nervous, picking at the buttons of his jacket. Eyeing his face, Eames could see a fresh bruise on his cheek and what looked like finger-shaped bruises along his throat.

 

"Oi, what happened to you? You have a run in with someone?" he asked, feeling his blood boil when he cast a glance Markos' way.

 

"Don't look at me. I was in all night," Markos grumbled defensively.

 

"Yeah, 'is aunt grounded his arse," Pali laughed, reaching down to ruffled the shorter boy's dark hair.

 

"Fuck off," Markos growled, glowering at the lot of them.

 

"I'm fine," Arthur said, looking only at Eames before he reached down to grab his backpack. "Let's go."

 

They walked the five miles to town, knowing there wasn't a good chance they could hitchhike with so many people. The boys had a grand time as they made crude jokes and got into mini-skirmishes along the side of the road. Arthur was quiet the whole time, but once or twice Eames saw him crack a smile at their hijinks. He could tell by the way the younger boy limped slightly that his injuries weren't isolated to the visible ones on his face and neck. Eames wondered why Arthur would protect his attacker, and then it occurred to him that it might not be the lads who were responsible.

 

"What's your dad do?" he asked, sidling up to Arthur, who was walking slightly ahead of the other boys.

 

Arthur cast a wary glance his way. "Used to work at a factory. Then he got hurt, so he went on disability."

 

Eames knew that old song. Some of the people at their camp, who had proper government papers and had one time worked, were able to go on DLA. It didn't pay much, but it helped.

 

"Then the disability ran out, so my dad called your uncle," he added.

 

"Didn't know Davey had mates outside his drinkin' buddies," Eames answered cavalierly, testing the waters without being obvious about it.

 

Arthur smirked bitterly. "I'm sure they _are_ drinking buddies. Or _were_ , I guess."

 

 _Ah_. That was answer enough for Eames. Roger, Arthur's dad, was a drinker and was making his son pay for his life mistakes. He'd seen the same story unfold in the camps a million times, but this time he felt a surge of hot fury. He stifled the urge to curse up a storm.

 

"You smoke?" Eames asked, wagging his bag o' tobaccy at him.

 

Arthur smirked and shook his head. "I'm _fourteen_ , remember?" he asked cheekily, clearly alluding to Eames's condescending remarks about his age yesterday. Eames stuffed the bag back in his pocket.

 

 _You don't kiss like you're fourteen_ , he wanted to say, but didn't, mindful of the pack of hyenas at their backs. He doubted any of the boys would care if he licked Arthur's tonsils in front of them — apart from the usual disparaging remarks something like that would receive from a group of adolescent youth — but he didn't want to put the shy boy in that spot. Arthur seemed like the slightest wrong move might set him off and send him running for the hills.

 

They reached town by mid-afternoon and immediately sent a couple of the younger lads in an Aldi to knick them some chips and soda. It was smart to send the youngest boys because, if they got caught, management was more likely to let them go with a stern warning. Someone like Eames, who already had a record for disorderly conduct and stealing cars, would be sent straight to juvie if he got caught liberating a bag of crisps.

 

They ate in a small park and kept an eye out for coppers who were always chasing them out of public spaces because they were _loitering_ , another word for sitting around, minding their own business.

 

"Where you from in the states?" Pali asked, looking dumb, in his opinion, with his orange hair sweaty and sticking in every direction. 

 

Arthur plucked a chip from his bag and turned it as he stared at it thoughtfully. "Virginia."

 

"That's where the C.I.A. is!" Pali cried, his face lighting up.

 

"C.I.A.'s everywhere," Markos corrected.

 

Pali rolled his eyes. "No, iggit. I mean, them's headquarters is in Virginia."

 

Arthur grinned as he chomped down on his chip. "We didn't live by there."

 

"You ever been to Disney World?" Markos asked before he took a swig from his soda.

 

"Nah, too expensive," Arthur answered, wiping some of the cheese dust off on his trouser leg. 

 

"Man, I bet it'd be sick. I'm gonna go on every ride six times when I go," Markos said wistfully.

 

 "Great Adventure has better roller coasters," the American remarked casually, having the rapt attention of the group because he seemed very worldly in that moment.

 

Afterwards, when the sun was low in the sky, the boys walked over to a building where Pali said he'd heard fights took place. As night approached, a group of rough-looking blokes did arrive at the building, and looked more than a little skeptical when Eames announced he wanted his name added to the fight roster. 

 

"How old are you?" a man with a white beard barked at him.

 

"Eighteen," Eames lied, looking him in the eye the whole time.

 

He could feel Arthur fidgeting nervously beside him as they watched the first couple of fights — terrible performances with absolutely zero form or finesse. There were no rules, and at one point a drunken man tried to gouge out the eyes of his opponent. Arthur inhaled sharply and turned towards Eames like he was a second away from burying his face into the older boy's arm.

 

"Fuck," he whispered, sounding afraid.

 

"Oi," Eames answered softly, letting their hands brush. "I'll be all right." He offered a cocky little smirk to Arthur, just to show him he wasn't sweating these fools.

 

Arthur gazed up at him, looking completely freaked out. "Be careful, okay?"

 

"What do I get when I win?" Eames asked, still grinning, deliberately choosing that wording because he'd never lost a fight and he wasn't about to lose in front of the American.

 

Arthur, of course, rolled his eyes, but he smiled. "What do you want?" he asked, and Eames could see a soft blush forming on his cheekbones beneath the bruising there.

 

"I want another kiss," he answered immediately, his voice dipping low, masked by the shouts of the frenzied mob watching the fights, but he knew Arthur could hear him perfectly. He'd been thinking about their chaste first kiss since yesterday. In total honesty, he wanted much more than a kiss, but he didn't want to intimidate the boy.

 

The younger lad made an effort to look put out by that request, and Eames liked that. He liked that Arthur was virginal and a little icy. It made him have to work for it. It meant when they did fuck that Arthur would be his and his alone. Eames had had a lot of sex for a sixteen-year-old, but he'd never had someone like Arthur — someone who would be his entirely.

 

"Fine. But just a kiss," Arthur said, drawing the line like a good boy.

 

Eames grinned wolfishly. "On my mum's grave. Just a kiss."

 

***

 

He won the fight in ten seconds. 

 

His opponent had been pissed off his face — some blokes preferred to fight drunk to take the edge off their nerves, but Eames liked to be stone cold sober to keep his senses sharp. When the poor sod came stumbling forward, Eames threw up a stiff jab to break his nose, and then finished the fight with a right cross. He probably could have stopped there, but no one had called for an end to the fight, and he wanted to impress Arthur, so he dove on the man and started pummelling him with elbows across his bloody face.

 

That's when a group of hands pulled him off.

 

"Enough! _Enough_ , lad! Jesus Christ, you'll kill him," someone said, but Eames never found out who because he was staring down at the bloody figure with wild eyes.

 

They left town sixty pounds richer — five pounds for each boy and thirty-five for Eames, which was only fair because he'd won the fight.

 

"Un-fucking-real!" Milosh cried, shadow boxing as he walked backwards along the road and beamed at Eames. "You nearly sent that wanker to an early grave, bruv! Fucking _beautiful_!" he cried, immediately trying to take a swing at Stevo, who was Eames's age, and easily pivoted away from the shot. The two of them started scuffling and of course Markos and Pali rushed over to encourage the behavior.

 

That left Eames an opening to address Arthur privately as they walked ahead of the madness.

 

"Like the fight?" he asked

 

Arthur looked pale and shook his head a bit. "Too violent. Don't think I'm cut out for it," he muttered.

 

Eames felt his heart sink a bit at that. He'd fought well and he'd done it for Arthur. The younger boy seemed to sense his disappointed because he quickly added: "You did well, though."

 

"Yeah?"

 

"Yeah, I mean…shit. I've never seen someone get knocked out before. You're really good."

 

Eames grinned brightly. "I've never lost. Someone said I could go pro once."

 

"I'd believe it. You're really strong," Arthur said, flushing when he realized what he'd said.

 

Eames shouldered him gently. "Want to feel my bicep?"

 

Arthur glanced behind them to where Stevo had Milosh in a headlock. "Sure," he replied, their eyes locking as he reached over to touch Eames's upper arm. The older boy flexed a little for his benefit. Arthur let go hurriedly, perhaps not wanting to be spotted by the other boys.

 

"Oo-la-la!" bloody Markos shouted from behind them when he spotted Eames cozying up to Arthur. "Is that your girlfriend, Eames?" he shouted, the other boys laughing uproariously as they made rude kissing noises.

 

He could feel Arthur tense beside him, but before the boy could dart into the night, he threw his arm around the boy's shoulders.

 

"Boyfriend, actually!" he shouted jovially and the boys roared again.

 

Arthur went beet red. "Very funny," he growled unhappily. Eames pressed his lips to the boy's ear and whispered to him.

 

"Who says I'm joking?"

 

Arthur elbowed him in the ribs, but didn't put his weight behind it, so it was really more of a playful nudge. "You didn't even ask me out."

 

"I'm asking now," he responded, tightening his hold on Arthur's shoulders.

 

Their camp laid just beyond the horizon, tucked behind grassy hills that appeared black beneath the moon's distant light. It was cold out, but in a nice, crisp way that made snuggling against Arthur all the more appealing. The boys, scatterbrained as ever, returned to fighting having lost interest in Arthur and Eames.

 

 _Arthur and Eames_. He liked the sound of it. 

 

He could feel the younger boy leaning into his side. "We kissed once and now you want to _date_?" Arthur grinned.

 

"Yeah, I want you to go with just me," he said, carefully watching Arthur's fair profile for his reaction.

 

The importance of the moment seemed to sink in then, and Arthur's wicked expression softened at the edges. His dark eyes explored Eames' before he answered. "Yeah. Okay."

 

This was different for Eames. He'd had sex with lots of people, but he'd never asked any of them — let alone someone _from his own camp —_ to date him. He was going to see Arthur all the time, probably every day, and Eames was surprised to find the prospect more exciting than terrifying. Arthur was special — classy, even. He didn't get drunk and piss in the fields or shoplift or fight for fun. He came from America and he'd been to Great Adventure and seen the world, so Eames wanted to show him that he was mature and desired more than a quick fuck.

 

To show Arthur he was serious about the whole thing, he walked the boy all the way to his camper, although Arthur wouldn't let him approach the steps. They huddled a little ways away from the caravan.

 

"Thanks for inviting me," Arthur said, so polite as usual. 

 

Eames stepped close to him and kissed the boy, his hands flying up to grip the sides of his face, nearly enveloping the circumference of his skull entirely. This time, he didn't fuck around, and instead pushed his tongue into Arthur's mouth and kissed him soundly. Arthur whimpered nicely into his mouth and he could feel the kid's fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, pulling and yanking desperately. That gave Eames the cue to release his face and wrap his arms around Arthur's thin waist. 

 

It felt like they kissed for a long time, and only finally broke apart when Eames got a little cheeky and dipped his hands down to grip Arthur's arse. He felt the boy gasp before he leaned back and gripped Eames's wrist to pull them off his pert little rear.

 

"Easy…" he chastized, but he was flush and smiling. Eames grinned in return, flashing his crooked teeth.

 

"Sorry," he replied, releasing Arthur and letting him step back. Arthur wasn't like Eames' other conquests at the other camps he'd lived in. He wasn't going to drop his pants and bend over just because Eames had won the fight.

 

"I'll see you tomorrow?" Arthur asked, looking so earnest that Eames wanted to kiss him again.

 

"Of course," he replied, stepping closer so he could take Arthur's hand gently into his own and kiss the back of his fingers because he'd seen a bloke do that in a movie one time and he'd always wanted to try it.

 

"Goodnight," Arthur whispered, looking a little shellshocked before he turned and disappeared inside the trailer.

 

Eames watched him go, then headed the few yards back to his and Davey's. He felt light and happy, thinking it didn't get much better than winning a fight and then winning Arthur.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur has secrets.

Arthur started coming over pretty regularly after that to hang out. Davey was usually asleep or out, so that meant they had the run of the place. They'd sit together on the couch and watch his uncle's black and white telly while Eames drank a beer or two. He always offered Arthur one, but the boy consistently declined, explaining one time he didn't like how alcohol made him feel lightheaded. That was fine by Eames. Davey would have most likely had a fit if Arthur drank all his beer, and then he'd probably say Arthur couldn't come over anymore.

 

After Eames had his drinks, he'd slide an arm around Arthur's shoulders and kiss his neck. Depending on how Arthur reacted, he'd then turn the boy's face toward him and kiss him properly. They'd gotten a little farther each time during these necking sessions. The first time, they'd just kissed, but the second time he got his hand under Arthur's shirt and lightly pinched the boy's nipple. After that, Eames pushed Arthur down onto the couch and laid atop him, pressing his hardening cock against the boy's thigh as they snogged. It had felt so good, but Arthur spooked soon afterward and made him stop.

 

Eames always initiated these interactions.

 

At first, he'd thought it was because Arthur was a good boy, raised proper, who was used to throwing on the brakes with chavs like Eames. But after a while, he realized Arthur wasn't just being cautious — he was _freaked out_ when Eames went too far. This was not familiar territory for Eames. He was used to being a stud in camp — up to his eyeballs in lovely girls and boys who'd happily ride his dick. He wondered if Arthur thought he was too good for him. The idea got his hackles up to the point where he brought it up one time when they were watching some talk show featuring people screaming at each other.

 

"You think I'm ugly or somethin'?" he asked, not meaning to sound so angry. He immediately cursed himself when he felt Arthur go rigid beside him.

 

"What? No…" Arthur responded, looking genuinely shocked at the accusation. "Why would you ask something like that?"

 

"You never kiss me. I always kiss you," Eames answered, feeling mad about it all over again as he snatched up the remote and turned off the telly.

 

"I…what?" Arthur asked dumbly, flustered. "That's stupid. I mean…of course _you_ kiss _me._ You're more experienced," he finished miserably, slumping in his seat and pouting adorably.

 

Eames grinned then. "Aw, pengting…sweet boy," he murmured, leaning over to kiss at his neck the way he knew Arthur liked, and sure enough the younger boy sighed and rolled his head to the side to give him more room. He felt better knowing Arthur was handing him the reins — not because he found Eames ugly — but because he lacked knowledge about this stuff. Eames was older, so it was up to him to lead the way.

 

They ended up in their usual position laid out across the couch with Arthur pinned beneath him. This time, Eames lined up their hips while they kissed and began grinding forth against Arthur so the boy could feel how hard his cock was. Arthur was making the nicest little moaning noises into his mouth, and after a while, he could feel the boy's dick hardening in response. It felt incredible as their erections pushed against each other, and Eames wanted to feel more so he reached between them and unfastened Arthur's nice slacks and fished his cock from his briefs. 

 

Arthur had a lovely prick — circumcised with a pink head Eames wanted to suck on until he was an old man. Instead, he shoved down his sweat pants and let his own cock spring free. Then he wrapped his hands along both their lengths and started stroking as he kissed Arthur. Or, he tried to, but the younger boy was writhing and moaning too much for him to do it properly.

 

"Oh, _fuck_ , Eames…" he whined, writhing and thrusting his hips upward so he could fuck himself into Eames' hand.

 

"You're so fit," he growled, running his thumb along the wet head of his cock. "Gonna come for me?" Eames asked, repeating the line from one of his favorite pornos.

 

Arthur pinched his eyes shut and keened, coming all over his hand and fancy shirt. Eames liked seeing him completely ruined like that, and he bent down and kissed him soundly, lapping his tongue into the boy's mouth until Arthur responded and kissed him back. When he'd calmed down enough to sit upright, Eames took his hand and wrapped his fingers around his dick. Even though he'd just come all over the place, he still looked flustered and out of his depth.

 

"Just stroke it," Eames encouraged, reaching down to guide Arthur's hand up…and then down again. "Fuck, yeah, like that. Squeeze a bit. _Fuck_ , like that." He shut his eyes a second and let Arthur jerk him.

 

"Yours looks different," he commented softly, sounding interested more than anything.

 

"M'not circumcised," he muttered, then licked his lips, loving how Arthur's soft little hand felt on him. "Faster," he instructed, gasping when Arthur obeyed. He shifted on the couch so he could spread his legs wide and rest his head on the top of the cushion. He watched Arthur's blushing face and revelled in the sound of his hand slapping against his dick.

 

"You like it?" he asked, his voice rough as he watched Arthur's mouth.

 

"Yeah…" the younger boy responded.

 

"Put it in your mouth," he said, feeling like he could come just from that mental image.

 

"Eames, no," Arthur replied, sounding a little shaky, so he dropped it immediately. He wanted Arthur more than anything, but he would never force him. 

 

He let Arthur finish with his hand, and when he came in bursts of thick, ropey come, he yanked off his sleeveless shirt to mop up the mess and then tossed it aside. "That all right?" he asked, pulling up his sweats and then gripping Arthur by the wrist to pull him close and kiss his face.

 

"Yeah," Arthur responded, curling up beside him.

 

"We can do more next time," he said, resting his head backward so he could watch Arthur's reaction. "Would you want to?"

 

"I guess. Yeah," Arthur said, smiling slowly. "It felt okay?"

 

"You were brilliant," Eames answered, kissing his lips again softly. He felt like he could sleep for ages.

 

***

The next time Arthur came over, and they got down to business, Eames tried to slip a finger in his arse. He'd nearly caught a knee to the face for trying that one, and Arthur shot across the room so fast that Eames was left kneeling on the couch, staring at him for a good while afterwards, totally shocked.

 

"Uh, sorry," he finally managed to say.

 

"Don't. Don't…do that," Arthur said, shaking a bit. Eames remained on the couch, stunned and seriously confused. Things has been going so well. Arthur had let him get a little further each time, and so his brain had helpfully suggested that this was the natural next step in their relationship. Arthur had given him a hand job, declined a blow job, and so Eames had decided to skip to the main show. Maybe that had been a miscalculation.

 

"Wanna give me a blowie?" he suggested helpfully, wondering if Arthur had rethought that stage of the Fucking Evolutionary Chart. 

 

Judging by the way Arthur glowered at him, the answer to that was a no. Eames sighed exasperatedly and slumped back on the couch, throwing his arm across his forehead to demonstrate his frustration. Arthur watched him and then quickly did up his trousers and started gathering his other clothing items in a rush. Eames was just about to ask him what the hell was going on when the younger boy started rambling.

 

"Sorry, I guess you want to break up now. I'll go." He pulled on his shirt and started rummaging around for his socks.

 

"Break up?! What the hell are you on about?" Eames shouted — not meaning to — but the loud noise in the small space of the caravan successfully paralyzed Arthur. He looked… _afraid,_ and Eames instantly hated the expression on his lovely face. He shot off the couch and approached Arthur, lifting his chin until the boy looked at him with tears in his eyes.

 

"Arthur…" Eames began softly.

 

"M'not a virgin. I'm sorry," he whispered, a few tears slipping free and running down his cheeks. 

 

Eames tisked and gently ran the pads of his thumbs across his cheeks to brush away the tears. "Why would I care about that?" Yes, he'd assumed Arthur was a virgin, namely because he was so young, but that small detail didn't mean anything to Eames because Arthur was _his_ now.

 

"I thought…I dunno. I thought you'd want to have sex, and…I don't like doing that. It hurts," Arthur finished, his voice shaking. Eames made him put down his shoes and socks and gathered the smaller boy in his arms, feeling his slight frame quake. 

 

"Who did it to you?" he whispered, his lips buried in Arthur's soft hair. He could feel the boy stiffen, usually a telltale indication Arthur was about to bolt, or lie, or change the subject so he wouldn't have to talk about anything related to his bruises or his past. But to his surprise, Arthur relaxed again — slightly — against his chest as his arms came up and wrapped around his neck to hold on.

 

"My dad's friend…When I was twelve…" The silence in the trailer after that confession was deafening. Eames desperately wanted to say something comforting, but he couldn't focus on anything beyond the murderous rage he felt. Eames had been angry before — at people who wronged him, at the coppers who threw him in jail, at the people he fought — but he'd never felt a rage like this before. He wanted to find the man who hurt Arthur, cut off his balls, and feed them to him.

 

But Arthur wasn't done talking, and he was afraid if he interrupted, he'd never hear the whole, terrible truth. "He'd…make me suck him first, and then he'd do it."

 

"Where was your dad?" he asked, not recognizing his own voice. It sounded like broken glass.

 

Arthur scoffed — the same angry, little sound he always made when he talked about his father. "Passed out. As usual."

 

His fingers twisted in the fabric of Arthur's shirt as he held him and kissed the top of his head. He fantasized briefly of sneaking over to Roger's trailer, pouring gasoline everywhere, and burning him alive inside. Suddenly, everything about Arthur made more sense — his standoffish, reserved demeanor — so unlike the other boys his age. The way he tensed whenever Eames pushed him too far, too fast. The way he seemed fascinated and terrified by sex, at the same time.

 

"Does he hit you?" Eames asked, feeling like since they were on a confessional roll anyway, he might as well get answers to all his questions.

 

"Not as much as he used to," Arthur answered, and the worst part was he actually sounded a little relieved at that notion.

 

Eames leaned back and moved to grip Arthur's face — maybe too roughly because the youth winced a little and he instantly relaxed his hold, grazing his fingertips across Arthur's jaw apologetically. 

 

"If he ever touches you again, come find me," Eames said, glad his voice sounded so authoritative and in control.

 

"Eames, no. Don't get involved," Arthur replied, trying to shake his head.

 

"I mean it. You come tell me."

 

"It'll be worse if you get involved! He'll just beat me worse," Arthur cried.

 

He released the boy and turned, seeing nothing but a burst of white light before he heard himself cry, " _Fuck!_ " and the next thing he knew, he could see again and there was a small table overturned in the middle of the trailer and Arthur was huddled in the corner, terrified. This happened sometimes. Eames got madder and madder and then he'd lose track of time, and when he came to, bad things had happened and they were all his fault.

 

"Arthur…" he said softly, hating that the younger boy looked afraid of him. 

 

He approached him slowly and gathered Arthur in his arms until he stopped shaking. "I just want to take care of you…" he confessed, his heart still hammering in his chest. 

 

"Then don't say anything. Just let it be," he whispered, no longer trembling, but gripping Eames by the arms instead.

 

"Run away with me," Eames said, realizing only after he'd said it that it was the perfect solution. _Arthur and Eames_ — on their own, living in their own place.

 

"We can't," Arthur said immediately, sighing as he squirmed out of Eames' embrace. "

 

"Why not?" Eames countered angrily, hating that Arthur had such little faith in them.

 

"Because we'll starve, for one. I mean, how would we make money?"

 

Eames' face brightened when the idea occurred to him. "I'll fight."

 

"No," Arthur answered flatly, and right, of course he would. The younger boy hated fighting. He'd been terrified the one time he'd observed what Eames did.

 

They both fell silent after that when it became painfully obvious they were two kids, trapped in their immediate circumstances — prisoners of happenstance. Arthur was right. There was no where they could go — no one they could turn to except each other, and Arthur was actually the one trying to protect them by making the best of his horrible living situation. If they kicked up a fuss, Roger would forbid Arthur from seeing Eames, and Davey would enforce the measure because it'd mean keeping peace in the camp.

 

"I want to do all that stuff with you," Arthur admitted quietly, alluding to the business before.

 

"We don't have to," he replied quickly.

 

"No.." Arthur interjected, huffing, clearly frustrated. "I'm so sick of other people fucking up my life for me. Eames…I want all of that…with you. But we have to go slow, okay?"

 

Eames grinned lopsidedly. "Of course, love."

 

 _Of course_.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eames and his bright ideas.

They kept seeing each other after that, and Eames kept fighting in town, though Arthur never attended a match again. He told Eames it made him feel sick to watch — even if the older boy won, so Eames decided he wouldn't force the issue. Whenever Davey was out, which was often, Arthur would come over and they'd watch TV, or play cards, or fool around on the couch, but they never took it very far until one day Arthur pulled back from where they'd been necking on the couch and announced: "I want to suck you."

 

As if Eames would ever turn down that offer in a million bloody years. "Uh…sure," he responded articulately, quickly reaching down to tug down his sweat pants, eyes glazed over as he watched Arthur sink to his knees between Eames' spread thighs. "You're sure?" he asked, gripped the back of Arthur's head to hold him in place, and brushed his thumb along the younger boy's cheekbone.

 

Arthur nodded as he gripped his already hardening cock, giving it a few strokes as he stared at it determinedly. "Yeah," he exhaled, the tip of his tongue swiping across his lower lip, the sight causing Eames' balls to tighten. 

 

"Then he's all yours," Eames said, hoping he sounded casual. He leaned his head against the back of the couch and watched Arthur tentatively dip downward to swipe his tongue across the head of his cock in a kittenish lick. Eames realized he was acclimating to the taste because Arthur had only done this when he was very young, and it hadn't been a pleasant experience for him. Maybe he was trying to exorcise himself of the bad memories.

 

"We don't have to," Eames offered because he wanted to at least give Arthur the option of stopping.

 

"I want to," Arthur said resolutely, still glaring at his dick like it was a problem to solve. Before Eames could say anything else, Arthur sucked the head of his cock into his mouth, making sure to cover his teeth with his lips. It felt perfect — hot, tight, and wet — and Eames groaned loudly, his hand sliding to the back of Arthur's crown to lightly grip his hair. He pressed a little, and the younger boy seemed to catch on as he lowered down about an inch, and then stopped again, sucking the whole while.

 

Eames could feel him breathing deeply through his nose — the soft exhales gusting across his pubic hair. When he pressed his hand to Arthur's head again, the tip of his cock hit the back of the boy's throat and Eames heard him gag, and so he immediately released the grip on his head. Arthur pulled back, his cock popped out of the boy's mouth, and breathing hard, he sat back on his heels and coughed a bit, his hand continuing to stroke Eames' length.

 

"Fuck…you're too big," he said, flushed in the face, but smiling — dimples and all — when he looked up.

 

"Don't try to swallow the whole thing, pengting. Take as much as you can and use your hand for the rest," he advised, grinning fondly at his sweet, stubborn Arthur, who looked like he'd failed some important test just because he couldn't deep throat Eames on the first go.

 

"'Kay," Arthur said, taking a deep breath as he righted himself again. This time, he took as much of Eames' cock into his mouth as he could, and then wrapped his fingers around the base to stroke him there. As he bobbed his head, saliva trickled down his dick and coated the boy's fingers. Arthur still occasionally gagged, but he breathed through the momentary panic. The entire spectacle was such an incredible turn on that Eames had to keep looking away from the sight of Arthur's dark head moving up and down, his soft lips spread obscenely as he sucked down the older boy's cock hungrily.

 

The wet, sucking noises mingled with Eames' groans for a while — right up until his Uncle Davey came charging through the front door and scared the living shit from the both of them.

 

Arthur fell backwards and scrambled to his feet while Eames shot off the couch and quickly pulled up his sweat pants, which did nothing to hide the obvious tent of his hard on. As it turned out, Arthur was such a phenomenal cocksucker that not even the sight of his uncle made his erection diminish. Despite their quick separation, it was obvious what they'd been up to. Davey stood in the doorway, staring at them, as Eames stared back and Arthur looked at his shoes.

 

For the first time in years, Eames was rendered totally speechless. He breathed heavily and still he felt lightheaded, like there wasn't enough oxygen in the room. Davey's face was carefully blank — creepily so — and Eames found himself wanting the hammer to fall even though he was fairly certain the consequences were going to be dire. His uncle wasn't a gay basher or anything, but he did make jokes about queers sometimes when he was hanging out with his mates, and Eames had been very careful not to flaunt his preference for men in front of his guardian. 

 

"Arthur, go home," Davey said finally, though he looked at Eames the whole time.

 

Arthur practically ran out of the trailer the second his uncle stepped aside. He tried to remain composed as he snatched up his bag of tobacco and rolling paper to make himself a cigarette. By the time he'd finished and lit it, Davey was still staring at him and Eames was beginning to feel annoyed.

 

"What?" he barked, wanting this all to be over.

 

"You can't see that boy anymore," Davey said, so authoritatively that it genuinely surprised Eames. He'd expected a punishment — maybe a beating — but forbidding him from seeing Arthur? Davey wasn't usually that parental with him.

 

"Fuck off!" Eames shouted, no longer surprised by the instant feeling of rage that seized him. When it came to Arthur, he'd come to realize he was frequently irrational. But anger also ran in their family, as demonstrated when Davey crossed the room, gripped him by the arm, and shook Eames so hard that his head snapped back and he dropped his smoke on the floor.

 

"I mean it!" his uncle bellowed at him, "If I ever see that boy in here I'll tell the whole bloody camp what he is! Do you hear me?!" 

 

Eames bared his teeth. "Then everyone will know what I am." It was one thing for his mates to know — they'd just laughed it off, probably thinking Eames was _eccentric_ or something — but it was another thing for the elders in the camp to know Eames was having his dick sucked by the neighbor boy.

 

"That's right. They'll all know and then you'll be out on yer arse," Davey spat, his grip tightening on Eames' arm. The arrogant smirk evaporated from his mouth then. Until that moment, he hadn't been sure Davey was serious about this, but now he was threatening to excommunicate Eames from the family — the very worse punishment there was. Eames would have to find a new camp or try to make it on the grid, which would be bloody difficult without a birth certificate or state ID. "Oh, finally setting in fer you, is it?" Davey growled, released Eames, and stepped back.

 

His uncle crushed the cigarette on the floor with his boot and then trudged heavily to his armchair and collapsed in it. " _Fuck_ , Eamesy," he groaned, rubbing at his face in a way that meant he was at his limit. "Why do you always make trouble?"

 

Eames wanted to say he wasn't making trouble — that actually he'd stopped stealing and drinking too much since he met Arthur because Arthur was classy and Eames was going to take care of him, but he knew his uncle would get angry if he said any of that.

 

"Sorry. I won't see 'im no more," Eames murmured, lying, but knowing it's what Davey wanted him to say.

 

Davey stared hard at him for a long time and then shook his head as he sighed. "I hope to God yer tellin' the truth."

 

***

Eames didn't see Arthur for a whole week after that, and during that time, he swore his chest was going to cave in from the amount of _wanting_ he felt. He didn't hang out with the lads. In fact, he barely left the camper. Eames laid about, feeling sorry for himself and hating the world until one night he watched through the window and saw Davey and Roger meet up in the middle of camp and then head off somewhere — probably town for drinks. Once he was sure they were gone, Eames snuck over to Arthur's and banged on the camper's door. Then he waited for a couple seconds and banged again. "Arthur!" he shouted and pounded on the door and tried to see through the window from his vantage point on the steps. 

 

It was too dark to see, though.

 

Eames rounded the camper until he spotted that the back window was partially open. He gripped the sill and pulled himself up and through the small opening, wiggling and kicking until he unceremoniously fell into the trailer. When he rolled to his feet, he could see Arthur propped up on his bed, staring at him. "Eames? What the hell?" he whispered, his voice hoarse from sleep.

 

"Wanted to see you," Eames said, and he felt cocky and pleased he'd broken inside and wondered briefly if this is what Romeo and Juliet was like, until he approached Arthur and actually saw his face. He'd been beaten black and blue — worse than Eames had ever seen him, his lip split open and his right eye nearly swollen shut entirely.

 

"The fuck?!" Eames cried as he sat on the bed cupped Arthur's face to see his injuries up close. "What the fuck happened?!" he asked, even though he already knew the answer.

 

Arthur winced at the loud noise and jostling before answering. "Your uncle had a chat with my dad..." he whispered and Eames couldn't understand why his voice sounded like that until he saw the bruises around his neck. Arthur's dad had strangled him. As his eyes adjusted to the dark room, he took in the rest of Arthur. The boy was clad in nothing but briefs, so he could now see the discolorations all over his body: his chest, his legs — huge, swollen patches on his ribs and his thigh — as though someone had kicked him there. Eames froze as he stared at the marks. Of course Davey told Roger. He hadn't trusted Eames to stop seeing Arthur on his own, so he'd decided to put a stop to it the only way he knew how — even if that meant killing Arthur.

 

The terrible truth of their situation settled upon his shoulders. Eames couldn't stop seeing Arthur because he was in love with him — had been since he first laid eyes on him — and he knew Arthur wouldn't stop trying to see him either. That meant if they stayed at the camp they would be waiting around to be killed. Unless…

 

"Listen, I have an idea," Eames whispered, taking Arthur's hand between his own to show the urgency of the moment. He could tell Arthur was staring back at him intensely. "I have some money saved from my fights that my uncle doesn't know about. It's not much, but we can catch a bus in town and take it to London. I got friends there. They'll help us get sorted."

 

The silence that followed was the longest of his life — worse than when Davey walked in on them and Eames thought the world was ending — because this time it concerned Arthur, who was either going to reject him or run away with him. Whatever happened next meant everything.

 

"Okay…" Arthur said and he sounded young and scared, but also determined, like he'd made up his mind and there was no looking back now. Eames knew they had to move fast and be gone by the time Roger and Davey got back, or this was never going to happen.

 

"Pack a small bag — just the essentials, nothing too heavy. I'll come back and fetch you." Eames nearly climbed off the bed, but changed his mind last minute and sat back down, leaned over Arthur, and kissed him gently. "I love you," he whispered, only afterwards realizing that was the first time he'd ever said those words. He could feel Arthur smiling against his mouth and the sensation made his heart hammer inside his chest.

 

"I love you," the boy echoed and he sounded so sincere that Eames wanted to kiss his face, but there wasn't enough time.

 

"Hurry," he instructed before he ran to the door, unlocked it, and charged down the steps. 

 

Eames grabbed a small duffle bag and threw some clothing inside, along with a wad of money he'd kept hidden under his bed. When he returned to the camper, Arthur was just making his way down the steps, dressed in a pair of jeans and a sweater. He was visibly limping. Eames hadn't accounted for how badly Arthur was hurt, but the younger boy insisted he could make the journey. All the same, Eames took his bag and flung it over his shoulder.

 

They walked slowly along the dark road, every second nerve-racking as Eames searched the horizon for the silhouettes of his uncle and Roger, who might stumble back from town, pissed out of their gourds at any moment. He tried to lighten the mood by being an arse.

 

"I could carry you," he offered and grinned cheekily.

 

Arthur smirked as he limped along the road slowly. "I'm fine," and though he seemed lighthearted, Eames knew this was an important moment for him — like he had to make the walk himself to show he was independent now.

 

They were quiet much of the walk, which allowed Eames' imagination to run wild — convincing him there were movements and noises coming from the darkness that weren't really there. He imagined Roger stalking forth from the shadows and killing them both with his bare hands. He imagined Davey casting him out of the camp — condemning him to wander the planet until he died in a ditch somewhere.

 

"I always had this fantasy that one day my dad would realize he'd been awful, and he'd apologize, say he was proud of me, and we'd have this new beginning," Arthur said suddenly, staring straight ahead as he resolutely plodded along. Eames slowly walked beside him, his chin lowered as he listened.

 

"But…that's not real. That's not who he is. This is who he is," Arthur said and looked at Eames, meaning for his battered face to illustrate his point. Arthur was convincing himself he was making the right decision, but he was also showing Eames that he wasn't some punk stealing away an innocent young lad in the dead of night. They _had_ to leave or Roger was going to kill Arthur one day, and Eames would probably go to prison for murdering Roger.

 

"C'mon," Eames murmured and sidled up to Arthur, slinging the boy's arm around his shoulders.

 

Arthur made a frustrated grunting noise. "I told you. I can walk."

 

"Not carrying you, iggit. Just lean on me."

 

"Oh…" Arthur said and then obeyed the order since leaning on Eames would lessen the pressure on his bad leg. "Thanks," he said softly and cast a shy look at the older boy. Eames squeezed his waist tenderly.

 

"No worries. We're close now."

 

***

 

It tore his heart up that he couldn't say goodbye to the lads, but if that was the sacrifice he had to pay in order to keep Arthur safe, it was worth it. Eames was amazed they made it into town without crossing paths with Davey and Roger, and luckily Port Authority was situated at their edge of the city limits. Eames bought two tickets to London with a good chunk of his savings and then stuffed the rest of the cash in his bag.

 

They sat slumped together inside the P.A., Eames watching the board for when the next bus to London got in. Arthur slept, his head rested on the older boy's shoulder until the headlights of the bus flooded the window they were seated in front of. He stood quickly and helped Arthur struggle to his feet before they boarded the bus and sat at the back so no one would bother them. Eames felt like he was dreaming, and at any second expected to see Davey charge the bus to stop them, or a tire to explode, or lightning to strike them — some act of God that would prevent him from leaving with Arthur in order to start a life outside of the camp.

 

Every moment of Eames' existence seemed to guide him toward a lifetime as a traveler — as someone who was destined to one day lead a camp himself, and here he was _leaving_. Yes, actually _leaving_. The bus was pulling away from the depot and the road laid clear before them — Davey nor Roger anywhere in sight. He felt pressure on his arm and realized Arthur was clinging to him.

 

"Are we safe?" he asked softly and peered out the window as if he also expected the camp to be running after their bus.

 

"Yes, love. We're safe," he whispered and leaned over to kiss Arthur's temple.

 

Eames had meant it when he'd said it, but then again, he had no idea what was in store for them.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Eames in the big city.

Eames had not been braced for the city — for the constant noise and the sea of people and how the world suddenly felt too large, too loud, and completely overwhelming. But he put on a brave face for Arthur, who clung to the older boy's arm like he was afraid a nasty city chav would emerge from the shadows and kidnap him.

First stop was a pay phone where Eames stuffed some coins into the slot and rang a mate of his who worked as a drug dealer nearby Smithfield Market. George, his mate, was well chuffed to hear "our Eamesy" was in the neighborhood and he invited them both over.

 

"You'll like old Georgey, pengting. He's all right," Eames said encouragingly to the younger boy as they made their way along the sidewalk. They'd have to walk south because Eames wasn't about to waste cash on the tube or a taxi. Arthur didn't look sure about anything, but he nodded slightly. His face was still swollen and bruised, and it looked bloody painful, but he hadn't complained once during the long bus ride. However, as they drew closer to George's and Eames uttered _not long now_ , he could feel the younger boy tensing by his side, and it occurred to him that Arthur hated to be around any males who weren't Eames — probably because he expected them to do something terrible to him.

 

"Don't worry. You just stick wif me," Eames said and Arthur nodded in response.

 

Georgey's place was a run down apartment with empty beer cans scattered around the place. Arthur hovered by the door as though he was afraid to touch anything, and Eames couldn't really blame him. Being poor was no excuse for a mess, and he and Davey had always kept their camper more or less pristine. However, Eames forgot about all that when the large, heavy man snatched him up in his arms in greeting and laughed uproariously. Then there was the standard backslapping and cheerful insults before he introduced Arthur, who George called a "half-dead kitten," which seemed to really set off the younger boy because he offered up his best scowl at the man.

 

"What the 'ell happened to him?"

 

"Pub fight," Eames lied without hesitation.

 

George seemed to find that hilarious because he continued to laugh as he crossed the room.

 

"All right?" he asked, seated on his couch with his arms extended across the back like a king on his throne.

 

"Yeah, bruv. Not bad. Need to find work, though," Eames replied, joining him on the couch and picking up Georgey's box of cigarettes to help himself to one. They was family, after all. Eames had a whole plan mapped out in his brain for how he and Arthur would make it. First, he'd find a job, and then he'd have to dig up enough cash for an apartment. He'd manage somehow. After all, he'd promised Arthur he would take care of him.

 

"Um…your friend can sit, bruv," George said, nodding to Arthur, who was still standing in front of the door, scowling, still wonderfully icy.

 

"I'm fine," the American replied flatly and Eames broke out grinning.

 

"Yeah, he's fine. Anyway, Georgey, mate, I need work. Know where I can find some?" Eames asked, using the man's bic to light his cigarette. When seated, George's belly rose before him like a great mountain and his t-shirt rode up a bit, revealing a patch of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his sweatpants. The man sighed like he was already exhausted by the line of questioning and scratched at his red beard. 

 

"Might be work on the docks. I'll talk to my mate. Where you boys stayin?" George asked, temporarily pulling his attention away from the telly where two barely dressed women were pulling each other's hair and screaming about who their babies daddy really was.

The world had really gone to shit, in Eames' opinion.

 

"Uh, well, about that.." Eames began, offering his most cheeky smile that had been known once or twice to disarm people. George stared back at him, unimpressed, so Eames ashed his ciggy into an empty beer can and dropped the smirk from his face. "Well, I was hoping you could spot me a bit for a flat. Just temporarily," he added quickly. "And I'll pay you back plus interest once I'm working."

 

"How much?" he asked, practical, like a businessman.

 

"Well, enough for the security deposit and at least the first month's rent…'til I'm working and can pay you back," he answered, taking another drag from his cigarette and exhaling through his nose. He glanced to the door where Arthur was still standing, unmoving, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans. George was clearly not in love with the idea because he groaned and started rubbing his beard again as he watched the telly for a bit. Eames was fully prepared for the man to tell him to scram when he suddenly spoke.

 

"Yer uncle's my mate," he said, seemingly apropos of nothing before he elaborated. "He know yer here?"

 

"Of course," Eames said with the effortless breeziness of a skilled liar. "Gave me his blessings on this new chapter of my life." 

 

"Uh-huh," Georgey replied, smirking a little because he probably knew Eames better than most. "Okay, well in _that_ case, I'd be a wanker fer crushin' yer dreams. Hold on." George groaned as he leaned forward and picked up a cigar box off the table. When he flipped back the lid, Eames nearly dropped his cigarette. There were stacks of hundred pound notes inside — crisp, like they'd just been printed. The man started counting them out, and when there was a neat pile on the table, he handed it over to Eames. "Go buy a burner and then text me yer number. I'll hit you back when I hear about work."

 

Eames dropped the rest of his smoke into the can, hearing it hiss as it extinguished in a pool of beer. He set the can on the table and accepted the bills. "Cheers," he said, folding the bills and stuffing them into his pocket before Georgey could change his mind. "Chat later, then," and with that, he stood up and crossed the room back to the door where Arthur was already fiddling with the lock to get the thing open.

"Later, bruv," he heard Georgey reply, laughter in his voice.

 

When they were outside, Eames burst out laughing and whooped loudly before Arthur grabbed him and told him to hush. "How much did he give you?" the boy asked, looking hesitant for some bloody reason.

 

"Too much, pengting! We're set, bruv," Eames said, grinning excitedly. Arthur still looked wary, which grated on his nerves a bit. "What's with you?"

 

"Nothing…" Arthur began and Eames didn't say anything as they slowly walked along the road. He knew sometimes Arthur just needed to sort out his thoughts before he spoke. "He won't make you do anything dangerous, right?" the boy finally asked minutes later. 

 

Eames grinned and slung his arm around Arthur's shoulders. "Nah, blud. Georgey's safe." 

 

The boy's lips ticked up at the corner, and Eames filed the image away as Arthur's first smile in the big city.

 

***

Even though George had been generous, they could only afford a real shithole in a sketchy part of town. Arthur, bless him, didn't complain, but he looked a little nervous as he sat on the mattress located on the floor — sans box spring — their only piece of furniture. Truthfully, not much else could fit in the flat besides their "kitchen," which was really a sink and a single cabinet. The bathroom was located down the hallway, and they'd be sharing it with their junky neighbors. Thank Christ gentrification hadn't come to their part of town yet, so they could still afford the rent, but just barely.

 

Arthur hadn't said a word since they moved in, but Eames still felt terrible. "It's only temporary," he said, moving to look out their window, which faced the side of another building. "Just until Georgey calls me and I start workin'," he said, already planning for how he would have to forge some papers that said he was eighteen — not sixteen. He could probably still get hired at the younger age, but they'd take him more seriously if he was older. He started babbling then — about how the neighborhood was on its way up and soon there'd be coffee shops and things of that nature, until Arthur finally, mercifully, interrupted him.

 

"Eames, it's okay," he said, smiling. His face had started to heal a bit — the angry black and blue marks fading to red and yellow. Soon, his face would look as it had before and they'd never have to think about Arthur's father ever again. "We're together, right? That's what we wanted."

 

He smiled in return and sat beside the younger boy on the bed, nodding as he thought about that. _Right_. That had been the only goal all along. Actually, things were going better than initially planned. Eames hadn't expected them to be this independent this quickly — with their own flat and job prospects on the horizon.

 

"Can I try sumfing?" Eames asked, and Arthur only hesitated for a second before answering.

 

"Okay…" Eames sat up straighter and cleared his throat a bit.

 

"Arthur, _darling._ You look terribly ravaging this evening.." Eames said, in his best posh accent. He picked up the younger man's hand and kissed the back of it, feeling giddy when he saw the stunned expression cross Arthur's face. He was a good copycat, and had excelled at mimicking Davey's handwriting and the voices of the characters on the soaps ever since he was little.

 

"You sound like the BBC announcers," Arthur said incredulously. 

 

"Right?" Eames asked, dropping the act as he leaned back on the bed. "Figure I got a better chance at findin' a job if I don't sound like a gutter rat." Arthur laid down beside him and splayed his arm across Eames' chest.

 

"You're not a gutter rat," he whispered, sounding a little sad.

 

"Maybe you think that because we're both rats," he countered, grinning as he glanced over at the boy. 

 

Arthur's smile was like a million suns.

 

"Maybe."

 

***

That night, Arthur must have had a difficult time falling asleep because Eames could feel him tossing and turning. The mattress was only a double, so they were basically squished together all night, and any time one of the boys moved, the other was sure to wake.

 

"Pengting?" Eames asked sleepily, cracking his eyes open to see Arthur staring back at him, wide awake.

 

"Sorry," Arthur apologized immediately, turning onto his side and tucking his hand beneath his chin, but he was still staring at him, and so Eames knew there was more on his mind. The older boy sighed and rubbed at his face, coming to terms with the fact that he wouldn't be sleeping much. "What's pengting mean?" Arthur asked softly and Eames couldn't help but smile.

 

"Means yer fit, love," he answered, and when Arthur didn't respond immediately, he broke his gaze from the ceiling to look at him. The American's brow was furrowed in confusion, so Eames clarified again. "It means yer sexy, Arthur."

 

Even in the dark, Eames could see the boy's cheeks flush red and the older boy grinned wolfishly in response. But the expression only lasted a second because Arthur looked unsure again — like he was summoning courage to say something. 

 

"If I'm sexy…how come you haven't…" Arthur's free hand waved a little in the air, vaguely. Eames stared at him in confusion before everything clicked into place. _Right._ They hadn't fooled around since moving into the new apartment and Arthur had been wondering if the dynamic between them had somehow shifted.

 

"Oh…well…you said you didn't like doin' that stuff and I didn't want to force you," Eames explained, truthfully, for once. He was a scoundrel according to most definitions, but he'd never stoop so low as to hurt Arthur for his own benefit.

 

"I said I wanted to try it with _you_ ," Arthur responded, sounding adorably angry. Eames couldn't help the smile that broke out across his face. The younger boy had such a weird way of flirting, but he liked his little fits of aggression just as he liked feeling Arthur squirm beneath him when Eames pinned him to the couch in the old days back in Davey's camper. He liked everything about Arthur, but his impulse to be difficult and precise were his best qualities. Without saying anything else, Eames rolled quickly so Arthur was trapped under him and braced his arms on either side of the boy's head. He could feel the air rush out of the American's lungs as he laid atop him, and he smirked before dipping down to kiss him soundly, pushing his tongue into Arthur's warm mouth.

 

"I want to try something," he whispered softly against Arthur's wet lips when they'd separated for air. Silent and a little stunned, the younger boy simply nodded and watched Eames climb off the bed to fetch his jeans. When he returned, he was cradling a small tube in his hand. Eames had gone shopping earlier in the week after they'd visited Georgey and picked up a few items other than the burner phone. 

 

"What's that?" Arthur asked warily, moving onto his elbows so he could see Eames as the older boy knelt between his spread thighs. Eames began massaging the inside of his leg immediately in soothing strokes.

 

"It's to make it easier," he explained, and that seemed to be enough for Arthur because he laid down again and looked at the ceiling, his smooth chest rising and falling slowly. Eames peeled the boxers off his narrow hips and threw them aside before he began to slowly stroke Arthur's cock, which was already semi-hard against his stomach. Eames smirked up at him as he wondered how long the poor boy had been laying beside him, fantasizing about the other times they'd messed around.

 

Arthur seemed determined to stare at the ceiling the whole time, which just wouldn't do, so Eames gripped his dick at the base and promptly swallowed him. The younger boy very nearly shot off the bed, so Eames gripped his hips and pinned him in place. Though he was a champion cocksucker, he didn't want Arthur to shove himself down his throat just yet. After all, they had to build up to these things.

 

"Ah, fuck!" Arthur cried, his hands flying to cradle Eames' skull, his lovely fingers curling into his short hair and yanking nicely. Eames loved when he could get the American to really come undone and thrash and swear because, normally, Arthur would never have lowered himself to such base instincts.

 

He got to work then, bobbing up and down and letting his lips leave trails of saliva along Arthur's rigid dick. When he glanced upward, he nearly lost the rhythm because Arthur was such a gorgeous vision with his head thrown back and his eyes pinched shut — lips parted as he gasped deeply for breath. Eames wanted to pull off his cock to tell the boy he wanted to hear him, but Arthur, as usual, was one step ahead, and he started to babble in between his moans.

 

"Oh, Eames…Oh my God. That's so…Oh God," he whimpered, and Eames could feel the boy's balls tightening in his palm. Quickly, he reached for the tube and flipped open the cap, squirting a little lube on his fingers before he reached down and teased a finger tip against Arthur's tight hole. Immediately, the boy tensed, and so Eames surged forward and took Arthur's cock into his throat. That's when the boy arched his back and cried out loudly, but a second later his muscles relaxed and Eames seized the opportunity to push a finger into him. Arthur was incredibly tight, and as he imagined fucking into the boy's heat, Eames felt himself growing hard inside his boxers. 

 

Arthur whimpered at the intrusion, but didn't tell him to stop, so he didn't. He kept sucking his cock, running his tongue lovingly along the underside of it before pushing his finger in to the second knuckle and crooking it a bit. That's when Arthur nearly tore out a chunk of his hair and thrust his hips up, burying his cock in Eames' throat before he started coming. Eames let him and swallowed obligingly, thrilled the boy apparently had an extremely sensitive prostate. He made a mental note to explore that discovery more thoroughly later.

 

"Oh God…Oh God…" Arthur kept moaning, his eyes still pinched shut even as Eames pealed off his own underwear and straddled the boy's chest. He stroked his cock quickly, the smacking sound eventually drawing Arthur's attention as he opened his eyes.

 

"Can I?" Eames grunted, hypnotized by the glassy, well-fucked looked in Arthur's eyes and his pink, shiny lips. The same lovely shade dusted his cheeks, and for the millionth time, Eames found himself thinking he'd never seen anything as beautiful as Arthur. A beat later, he possessively thought _Mine._

 

"Mhm…do it," Arthur whispered, his gaze dropping to Eames' swollen dick, his expression hungry — like he wanted to see the older boy come all over his chest. That thought alone sent Eames over and he shouted as he came across Arthur's clavicle, a few drops catching his chin and lips. Eames stared, dazed, as Arthur licked his seed of his lips and dipped his fingers to gather the droplets on his neck so he could taste them too. He seemed to like the taste because he hummed happily.

 

Eames fell ungracefully beside him, hearing Arthur laugh as the younger boy curled up against this side. "Was that okay?" Eames asked hoarsely, wanting to see where Arthur was at before he passed out in seconds.

 

"Yeah…didn't hurt," Arthur whispered, kissing his cheek affectionately. Eames' eyes were already closed. He felt so, so good.

 

"But it felt good?" he murmured.

 

"Mm..yeah," the boy responded, his breath ghosting Eames' ear. Pride swelled in his chest and he tightened his arm around Arthur's shoulders, holding him close, willing sleep to take him. The last thing he heard was Arthur's soft voice:

 

"It always feels good with you."


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Living together is great...and complicated.

Georgey called a week later with a job for Eames — nothing glamorous — just moving crates around at the docks, but it paid enough to keep a roof over their heads and food in their bellies. Eames didn't even have to lie about his age. He just showed up, listened to his supervisor, and got to work. He'd only been working for a couple weeks when Arthur said he wanted to get a job too.

 

"I hate sitting around all day," the younger boy complained and pouted adorably. Eames kissed his cheek and then wiped at the pale skin there because he'd been eating Cheetos and left an orange mark behind.

 

"Peeengting," he purred playfully. "Yer too young. I told you."

 

"I'm _fifteen_ ," Arthur pointed out, as if having had a birthday since they'd shacked up together would change Eames' mind.

 

They had celebrated Arthur's birthday modestly, of course, but Eames still secured a little cake and ordered take out from Arthur's favorite Thai restaurant, but the pièce de résistance came when Eames showed the younger boy what he'd gotten him — Arthur's name tattooed in fancy script across his heart. Eames thought it was bloody romantic, but Arthur first had a million medical questions about infections and hepatitis before he calmed down enough to touch the letters. 

 

Then he smiled, and when he looked at Eames, there were tears in his eyes.

 

"I like you here," Eames said simply and went back to reading from the paper laid out before him on the floor. Arthur shifted beside him on the bed, clearly unhappy with the answer, but Eames had already decided he wasn't going to budge on this one. He'd seen how the world hardened men who worked on the outside, and a small, selfish part of him liked that Arthur always waited at home for him — all sweetness and naive trust and lovely loyalty.

 

Arthur threw himself down on the bed and turned his back to Eames, huffing loudly, which meant he was angry. Eames sighed and set aside the paper and bag, wiped his hand on his jeans, and laid down beside the younger boy. It was the weekend, and he only got two days off before he had to be back at the docks, so he didn't want to spend his downtime fighting.  He wrapped his arm around Arthur's waist and kissed the side of his neck gently on the spot he knew drove him wild.

 

The boy barely squirmed before he spoke. "If I want to work, I can work."

 

"'Course, darling," Eames agreed immediately, not wanting to spend another second talking about this business when he had Arthur in his arms. 

 

He couldn't explain to Arthur his motives behind why he didn't want the other boy leaving the apartment — namely because they were bloody sick because Eames had always had a diseased mind. There wasn't much to think about during the long, repetitive days at the dock, and so his mind wandered to Arthur. Frequently. He daydreamed about fucking him constantly, even though they'd never done that, but Eames had a wonderful imagination. He was sure Arthur would be so sweet for him — opening right up and swallowing him in warm, perfect heat. If he could, he'd keep Arthur naked and tied up and make him wait all day for Eames to come home and fuck him again. 

 

Arthur was _his._ He hated the idea of Arthur outside where other men could see him and touch him. It was mad, of course. Eames knew the thoughts were wrong, and so he kept them to himself.

 

The problem was, the rest of his body never got the memo that he wasn't a pervert. Eames didn't realize anything was amiss until he felt Arthur squirm against him and the boy's chest rumble as he laughed.

 

"Um…Eames…" Arthur said softly, which is when Eames realized he was hard as a rock and pressing his erection against the swell of the boy's ass.

 

"Fuck, sorry," he said quickly, pulling his hips back so there was a couple inches of space between them. He may have a sick mind, but he had no desire to put Arthur in an uncomfortable position. Fantasies were one thing, but Eames also knew Arthur had a traumatic past, and he'd never forgive himself if he upset the boy.

 

Arthur rolled over and looked at him and Eames was relieved to see that he was smiling — slightly, like he was still shy even after sucking on Eames' cock and all the other depraved things they had done together.

 

"You know…" Arthur began and he placed his hand on Eames' bare chest across the tattoo of his name. "If you're going to keep me here all day, you should make it up to me." 

 

Eames couldn't stop looking at his face. The world might have been in flames with bloody riots taking place in the streets for all he knew because in that moment Arthur was the center of the universe. "Yeah?" he replied, his voice a low rumble in his chest. He could feel Arthur's fingers tightening on his chest across the pectoral muscle. Lifting heavy things all day had helped him broaden a bit and he knew the younger boy appreciated the change.

 

"Mhm…" Arthur hummed and leaned forward so their lips touched delicately. "Why haven't we had sex yet? It's like—"

 

Arthur probably said something after that. Eames was almost certain he did, but he didn't hear it because he was too busy grabbing the younger boy and rolling on top of him. He moved to grab Arthur's leg and wrap it around his waist, but he had already spread his thighs so Eames could settle between them. _Good boy_. Eames reached up to stroke his forehead, pushing the fringe out of the way so he could see his eyes clearly.

 

"Why the hell didn't you _say_ something?" he asked. He'd been hard as a rock every day for the past few weeks dreaming about Arthur like this. Once or twice at work, he'd had to discreetly adjust himself so his erection was tucked into the waistband of his boxers. After all, Eames was sixteen — seventeen in one month — and it didn't take much to get him riled up. Arthur could have simply stripped and waited for him kneeling on the bed and Eames would have been all over him the second he walked through the door.

 

Arthur wiggled a little, the minx, deliberately grinding their hips together. The movement drew a low moan from Eames and the younger boy smiled under him triumphantly.

 

"Thought you'd figure it out when I came like two seconds after you fingered me," he responded a moment before he leaned up and pressed their lips together. Arthur really never ceased to surprise him. Here he'd been worried about upsetting the boy's delicate sensibilities and all the while he'd been as hungry for it as Eames. He stroked his tongue into Arthur's mouth and separated with a bite to his lower lip.

 

Kneeling on the bed, he yanked off Arthur's pajama bottoms and his own jeans and boxers, and laid atop the younger boy again. Arthur was already breathing heavily, part arousal and part terror, if he had to guess. 

 

"Tell me to stop if–" Eames started to say, but Arthur quickly cut him off.

 

"I trust you," the boy whispered, looking him in the eyes as he said it, and for a second, Eames froze. _You wouldn't trust me_ , he thought helplessly. _Not if you knew what I thought about._

 

Eames kissed him again because he knew how to do that much, and he knew how to draw the desperate little moans from Arthur's throat as he rocked their hips together and their hardened cocks created delicious friction. He could definitely get off from just doing this, and he had in the past with Arthur, but that wasn't the goal right now. He pulled away from Arthur and reached for the windowsill where they kept the small tube. That's when he froze.

 

"Fuck…I don't have a condom," Eames said dumbly and looked down at Arthur.

 

The boy was already flush and the soft blush highlighted the light dusting of freckles across his cheeks. "It's okay. I trust you," Arthur said again, and Eames wanted to grab him and shake him and shout: _You shouldn't. You should never trust men like me._ But of course, he was a selfish creature and he felt ultimately only gratitude when Arthur gave him permission. He was clean, but there was absolutely no way for Arthur to know that, but the younger boy was stupidly, madly in love with Eames, and Eames was an inexplicably lucky sod.

 

He applied a few drops of lube to his cock and stroked himself to spread it around, and he did this quickly because he knew the bulk of his attention would be devoted to preparing Arthur. _Don't rush. Go slow._ He repeated the mantra as he gazed between Arthur's legs and the younger boy cupped his balls and dick in his hand and lifted so Eames could have a clear view of his tight little hole. He was seized by the desire to bury his face there and lap hungrily at him until Arthur shouted and yanked at his hair, but that would have to wait for a different day.

 

The first finger slipped inside easily enough because they'd been there before and Arthur was used to it, but it was the second finger that caused them to pause. Even though Eames' fingers were slick, even though he dribbled a bit more lube across Arthur's hole, the boy was too tight. Eames looked up and saw his brow furrowed in pain and frustration.

 

"It's okay…I'm okay…" he whispered, but his fingers were furled in the sheets and his thighs were trembling. Eames withdrew his fingers and ascended Arthur's reclined figure so he could kiss him again.

 

"Let's try this," he said as he guided Arthur onto his stomach and then up onto his knees. The older boy reached forward, placed his palm between Arthur's shoulder blades, and guided his torso down onto the mattress so his ass was angled up into the air. Eames smoothed his hand down Arthur's back and dipped his thumb into the dimples above the boy's pert rear. Then he bent down and did the same thing with his tongue, causing the charms around his neck to fall forward and lightly skim the boy's pale flesh. Arthur gasped beneath him and arched his back as he prostrated.

 

In this position, Eames was able to slide two fingers into the boy's clenched heat and began to thrust them slowly as he searched for the spot that turned Arthur into a panting, thriving mess before. He knew he'd found it when Arthur suddenly cried out and jerked his hips back against Eames' hand. He gripped Arthur's cock between his legs and stroked him as he slid a third finger inside, and this time Arthur opened right up for him.

 

"Good.." Eames growled, staring in awe at the boy's spread glistening hole.

 

"Fuck me before I come," Arthur instructed, his voice surprisingly steady and authoritative even with three fingers buried inside his ass. He instantly obeyed, withdrew his fingers, and held Arthur's hips firmly. Once he had them aligned properly, Eames gripped his dick and pressed the head against the boy's entrance. Even though they'd carefully prepared for this, Arthur still tensed a bit, and Eames could see that his eyes were clenched shut as his cheek pressed into a pillow.

 

"Shh..relax. Open for me. There's a good boy," Eames encouraged, his ability to speak leaving him temporarily when Arthur did relax and the head of his cock slipped inside. He froze then, overcome by a brief moment of disbelief that he was fucking Arthur. He was _finally_ fucking him, and _Christ,_ he felt incredible — exactly like Eames had imagined, and still somehow so much better. He grasped the boy by the waist as he eased forward and pushed inside until his hips rested flush against Arthur's ass. The boy was panting beneath him and groped blindly at the sheets, a soft moan escaping his lips.

 

Eames gave him a couple seconds to adjust before he started to fuck him in smooth, careful strokes, just warming up to get Arthur accustomed to the rhythm and the girth of him. Judging by his moans, Arthur liked it, and the boy moved to spread his thighs in a silent plea for more. He picked up the pace then, jerking his hips forward and allowing them to slap against Arthur's smooth, firm cheeks, which Eames held apart for a moment so he could watch his dick disappear inside Arthur.

 

"Fuck, yeah," he groaned and swatted the side of Arthur's ass before Eames gripped his hips again and fucked into him harder. Arthur cried – there was no other word for it – loud, wailing noises that made Eames' balls tighten. The boy reached for his dick to stoke it and ended up falling forward onto his shoulder, his cheek crushed against the pillow as the older boy rode him. 

 

"Oh my God…Eames, I'm gonna come," he whined, his voice nearly drowned out by the sound of Eames' hips colliding with his ass. 

 

"Fuck, me too," he responded before he fell forward and braced himself with his arms so he could stand on the balls of his feet and ride Arthur hard. The boy shouted again and arched his back. Even as Eames fucked him roughly, Arthur never for a moment dropped his hips, and in that moment, Eames might have fallen a little bit more in love with him.

 

"Ah! Oh shit! Oh God…" Arthur cried, his arm jerking frantically as he stroked his cock. Eames could feel the boy's whole body go tense, including his inner muscles, when he came, and Eames wasn't far behind. He rutted the boy frantically after his body collapsed beneath him. Eames thrust his hips forward and drew fucked out little moans from Arthur until he came inside him with a shout that made his vocal cords rattle. Afterward, he rocked against Arthur gently, letting the boy's muscles milk him dry. Then he laid atop Arthur and gasped for breath until the boy started to squirm. "You're fucking heavy," he mumbled.

 

Eames pulled out slowly and moaned again when he saw his come slide out of Arthur and down his thighs. "Yer built for fucking," he muttered incoherently, unaware he'd said anything at all until he saw Arthur smirk when he rolled over.

 

"Gee, thanks," he said sarcastically and then leaned forward to kiss Eames. "You say the sweetest things to me."

 

Eames grinned at him, wrapped his arms around the boy, and pulled him close. "I've been thinkin' about fucking you for _weeks_ ," he confessed because he was loopy after the sex and also because he trusted Arthur with everything. A thought occurred to him then and he willed himself to remain awake when he looked at Arthur's face. "Did you like it?"

 

A slow smile broke across Arthur's face and Eames reached up to cup his cheek and run his thumb over one of his dimples. "Yeah..felt awesome. Let's do that a lot," the boy said, grinning.

 

Eames laughed and kissed him. "As you like."

 

***

Life was grand for a while after that. Eames worked regularly at the dock, made just enough cash to keep them from being homeless, and got to fuck Arthur on every available surface when he returned after a long, hard day of work. When Eames came home one evening and found Arthur waiting for him in bed naked, he would have sworn that his life was just about perfect, which should have clued him into the fact that everything was about to go to hell.

 

It started when Arthur caught a cold he couldn't shake. Then it spread to his lungs and kept him up into the middle of the night, coughing and wheezing. Because he couldn't sleep, Arthur kept getting sicker, and the over-the-counter medicine Eames bought him wasn't working. They needed medicine — real medicine, but that would mean going to a doctor, which they simply couldn't afford.

 

"I'm fine," Arthur said one evening, curled up in bed as Eames stroked his forehead and the boy pathetically wheezed. There was definitely liquid in his lungs now. Eames was afraid to think about what would happen if Arthur didn't get medical attention soon. He thought back to that night in Roger's trailer when he'd sworn to the younger boy that he'd protect him. Eames meant to keep that promise, no matter what that entailed.

 

He showed up at Georgey's late that evening, soaked from the English rain that never had the decency to pour, but still managed to drench you after a long enough walk.

 

"Eamesy!" the man bellowed when he opened the door. "What cin I do fer ya?"

 

Eames thought about bolting right up until the moment he spoke. "I need more work. I'll do anything, mate."

 

The large man leaned in the doorway and looked down the hallway to make sure no one was listening. Then he scratched his beard thoughtfully. "I already told ya, I wouldn't want yer uncle to know I got ya mixed up in anything sordid…"

 

"Arthur's sick," Eames interrupted, having decided to cut to the chase. "I'm desperate, bruv. I'll do anything."

 

The man looked at him for a long moment and finally sighed and shook his head a bit. "Anything, hm? All right. Never let it be said George Hardington the Third turns away the needy, ay? Come in, come in," he said as he laughed and slapped Eames on the back.

 

The boy wished he could laugh too, but he suddenly found himself filled with dread as he stepped inside the man's flat and Georgey closed the door behind them.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eames gets a promotion and Arthur learns to fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wheeeee...it's a long update, ya'll!

Generally, gangs in London partook in two forms of trade: drugs and prostitution. Since he was only seventeen as of the month he started working for Georgey's friends, Eames wasn't trusted with the big stuff like transporting the drugs or girls, but instead he played lookout and messenger boy a lot. He made more money in a week than he'd made all those months slaving away at the docks, and at first, he felt fortuitous.  After Georgey handed him his first wad of cash, he took off immediately for their flat where he bundled up Arthur and took him to a doctor.

 

Eames had forged them both papers — nothing too fancy, just bits of paper and IDs to get them through the front door of a clinic, but nothing that would hold up under a NHS check. He'd heard stories about blokes using state services and then skipping out on the bill later, but with Eames' prior record, he wasn't willing to risk it. There was always the chance the cops wouldn't put his face to one of the many aliases he'd used, but he couldn't take those risks anymore. He dreaded to think about what would happen to Arthur if he went to jail. That's why he was willing to pay extra for the private doctor visit. It meant less nosy questions and a guarantee of medicine for the younger boy.

 

"It's good you came when you did," the doctor commented, a stethoscope pressed to Arthur's bare back as she listened to his lungs. "There's fluid in there," she commented and reached for a prescription pad tucked in her jacket. Eames was afraid to speak lest she change her mind at the last moment and throw them both out.

 

An hour later, Eames picked up the beautiful, wonderful, miraculous little pills that would save Arthur's life from the chemist. As he stood on the tube, he shook the bottle and gazed at the tiny red caplets, stunned that something so little could save someone so tremendously important as Arthur.

 

When he reached the flat, he immediately placed a pill in the boy's palm and fetched him a glass of water.

 

"Thanks," Arthur whispered miserably, wrapped in all the sheets and blankets they owned. He swallowed the pill with a swig of water and made a face.

 

Eames grinned and kissed him on the forehead.

 

***

Unfortunately, once Eames was in with that kind of business, there was no leaving the arrangement. One didn't drift in and out of organized crime as they pleased like it was a hobby, Georgey reminded him anytime he sensed Eames hesitate over a particularly sketchy bit of business. Sometimes, one of the girls — Eames hated to call them prostitutes — cried and a bloke would come and rough her up. Eames always had to leave the room when this happened. He could put up a lot, but he couldn't stand to see women cry.

 

He'd read in a book once that brothels used to be run by women. That way, they looked out for each other and got to keep all the profits for themselves as opposed to paying a pimp. After seeing how the gangs treated the women, he decided that was a much better way to handle things. Not that anyone asked him for his input, mind you. Eames barely spoke around the older men. He simply received orders and obeyed — usually hurried off to deliver a message or stand outside and watch for cops, and afterwards, he rushed home to Arthur and tried to pretend life was fine and normal.

 

"You're sure everything's okay?" Arthur asked one afternoon to Eames who sat in their small kitchen area on a chair, his head slightly tilted back as Arthur's fingers ran through his damp strands of hair. The cold scissor blades touched the back of Eames' neck and made him shiver a little.

 

"Of course, pet. M'fine," Eames answered and tried to keep his tone light.

 

He heard a snip and felt a cluster of hair fall against the back of his neck. Arthur pinched the strands and tossed them onto the floor to join the small pile of hair already located there. Eames could never in a million years tell Arthur that yesterday the boys dragged some poor bastard out of the warehouse all beaten and bloody and piled him into a van before they took off to a place where he was almost certainly executed. It wasn't fair to drop that kind of terrible knowledge on a good person like Arthur.

 

When he finished cutting his hair, Arthur gently wiped at the back of his neck and then kissed Eames' head.

 

"I'm always worried about you," he whispered against the freshly trimmed hairs.

 

***

He maintained an appearance of normalcy until he came home to the flat one evening and found Georgey and two men he didn't recognize standing inside his home. The sight was so strange that it momentarily stunned Eames and he stood, frozen, inside the doorway. Then he looked to the bed and saw Arthur seated there, bloody terrified, and that snapped him out of his daze. He walked toward the bed as Arthur stood and crossed the room to meet him halfway.

 

"I told them to leave, but they just walked in," Arthur whispered, his eyes wide and voice trembling like he thought Eames would be cross with him.

 

He looked over the boy's shoulder at the other two blokes. He recognized them now. The tallest man was named Stephan and Eames had never heard him say more than monosyllabic responses since he'd first met him. He wore his long blond hair pulled back in a ponytail and his eyes were always obscured behind a pair of small circular sunglasses. The shorter bloke everybody called Trigger because he was the one Georgey brought it when they needed somebody snuffed out. Eames had never actually met Trigger, but he'd heard twisted tales of his exploits, and he'd heard vague descriptions of the man: _a mad little bastard with red hair and matching mustache._ Though they'd never been introduced, Eames wanted to tear out his throat for the way the man grinned and eyed Arthur's back.

 

"What the fuck is this about, hm?" Eames asked and he must have looked downright mad with rage because Arthur quickly sidestepped him and retreated further into the kitchenette area, away from the men.

 

He couldn't _believe_ Georgey, who had always been a mate to him, would endanger Arthur by bringing him into their business.

 

"Arthur, go wait in the hallway," he said as he turned to the younger boy and softened his voice a bit so at to not spook him. Arthur nodded, though he still looked terrified, and he quickly left.

 

"What the _fuck_ , bruv," Eames spat once he'd turned back to Georgey, who at least had the decency to look regretful. "You break into my home and scare my roommate half to death?" Eames knew he was shouting, but he couldn't be bothered to care. He watched as Trigger crossed the room with that awful smirk still on his lips until he stood by their bed and then reached over to pluck the half-used tube off the sill. He laughed loudly once he'd read the label and waved it at the lads. 

 

"Riiight, roommate, was it? Pretty little thing, isn't he? I bet he's so sweet when you fuck him," Trigger leered. Eames didn't remember crossing the room, but suddenly Georgey gripped him by the arms and shoved him backwards before he could knock out the wanker.

 

"Easy, son! Easy. Christ, Trigger, shut yer mouth," Georgey bellowed and the room went silent. He was so relaxed and jovial normally that it was sometimes easy to forget the man was dangerous too. That was the thing about Georgey: it was like he flipped a switch and he became a monstrous force of nature, and just as fast, he went back to being the lovely bloke Eames knew. "Look…it wasn't supposed to go down this way. I came with a job offer. I know how it looks, but Arthur…he's not supposed to be involved."

 

"And you couldn't tell me this _outside_ of my home?" Eames asked, still riled up.

 

Georgey sighed and held up his hands to show surrender. "Yer right, all right? This one's on me. I'm sorry, mate."

 

Eames felt his muscles relax incrementally. The man looked genuinely apologetic, and besides, he didn't want to start a brawl and frighten Arthur further. 

 

"Well, what is it, then?" Eames asked as he accepted the cigarette Georgey handed him and leaned forward for the man to light the tip.

 

"A chance fer promotion. We've had a recent opening and think yer qualified to fill it," Georgey said in his euphemistic way that meant someone had died or gone to jail and now they needed the closest warm body to fill the vacancy.

 

"What is it?" he asked and ashed in an empty bottle of Nesquick on the kitchen counter.

 

"Driver," Stephan drawled in his funny accent Eames could never place. German, maybe.

 

"Okay…what am I transporting?" he asked and took a drag from his cigarette.

 

Georgey rubbed at his beard. "The merchandise," he said and Eames knew he meant the drugs. Probably a lot of drugs. Probably enough drugs to send him away until his mid-30s if he ever got caught hauling it.

 

"No way. No, man," Eames said quickly, no longer in the mood to smoke, so he tossed it in the bottle and let it extinguish in the small pool of chocolate milk located at the bottom.

 

"It's not a fucking _request_ , mite," Trigger growled from beside Georgey. "You do this or I come back and visit that pretty friend of yours."

 

"Jesus, will you _shut up_?" George thundered and Trigger actually looked a little taken aback by the man's response. He was probably used to being called in to intimidate people like Eames, but what he hadn't accounted for was that he and Georgey were mates, and threatening Arthur was like threatening Eames. When he looked back to Georgey, the man looked older and completely exhausted and it occurred to Eames that Georgey didn't want to be asking him for this favor. "Eamesy, I'm sorry, bruv. I got orders. There's no way around this one, mate."

 

That confirmed it. The higher ups wanted this and they'd specifically asked for Eames. That meant he either did it or he and Arthur would never again be safe in the city. They'd probably kill Arthur, or worse, for Eames daring to disobey them. Eames sighed and rubbed at his face. He willed time to stand still so he wouldn't have to make his inevitable decision, but when he looked back at the men, they stared expectantly at him and there was only one thing he could do.

 

"When do I start?"

 

Georgey approached him and placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "Tomorrow. Look, bruv," and his voice dipped a bit, which made Eames look up at him, and for a second it was like old times when Georgey stared at him fondly and Eames could genuinely believe everything would be all right. "Every man has to make a decision like this at some point in their life. M'proud of ya," he said and squeezed the young man's shoulder.

 

They left after that and Eames cringed when he heard Trigger made a crude kissing noise at Arthur when the boy passed him in the hallway. 

 

"That guy is creepy," the American muttered when he closed the door and triple checked the lock. "He kept saying disgusting stuff to me until you got home."

 

"Sorry about that, pet. He won't come 'round again," Eames said and gathered the boy in his arms. They kissed, but he could feel that Arthur was still tense, understandable given the circumstances. He leaned back to gaze at his face.

 

"What did they want?" he asked softly, his fingers reaching up to play with the strings hanging from Eames' hoodie.

 

"Just work stuff, pengting," Eames responded and kissed his forehead, but Arthur didn't buy that answer. He sighed, frustrated, and pushed away from him.

 

"You never _tell_ me anything. I feel like I'm going to wake up one morning and you won't be here, and you'll never come home," Arthur said, his voice trembling. "And I'll never know what happened because I don't know what you're _doing_ ,Eames."

 

"Arthur…" he said as he crossed the space between them and slid his arms around the boy's waist. Eames buried his nose against the back of his neck and kissed the skin there. "I'll always come home to you, pet. I'll never leave you. I'll never cross you. I love you, my darling," he purred the last word and felt Arthur shiver a little against him. He grinned and kissed the side of his throat. When Arthur turned to face him, he wrapped his arms tightly around the boy's waist.

 

"I love you too, but those guys are bad news," Arthur said seriously, his brow still furrowed in concern.

 

" _I'm_ bad news. I can handle 'em," he answered cheekily and flashed his crooked smile. The response broke Arthur a little and he saw the hint of a dimple when the boy smiled slightly.

 

"I know, but…just be careful, okay?" he implored, so sincerely that Eames felt his heart clench in his chest.

 

"Of course, love. Always."

 

***

Despite the dangerous magnitude of the situation, the job itself was remarkably dull. Growing up, Eames had thought the mob lifestyle would be glamorous: all shoot-outs, mountains of cocaine, and piles of cash. And while the piles of cash thing was true, the rest of the work entailed a lot of sitting around and waiting. Since he was seventeen, Eames could drive now, so he sat in the van and waited for the lads to load mismarked boxes that contained pounds of drugs under the crates' false bottoms. This process could take several hours because the boys had to weigh and mark down all the figures carefully so there wasn't a discrepancy later.

 

Eames hadn't encountered any trouble yet, though he had experienced a breathtakingly frightening moment when a cop pulled him over for having a taillight out. They'd ended up getting into a conversation about Eames' tattoos — he'd gotten some fresh ink in the past few months — and the cop wanted the name of his artist. Afterwards, he didn't even give Eames a ticket.

 

That was the closest he'd come to getting in trouble, and he considered himself extremely lucky. On the plus side, he was making enough cash that he'd be able to move Arthur into a nicer apartment soon. He had planned on delivering that good news the evening he walked into the flat and saw Georgey and Arthur standing in the middle of the room, flushed and breathing heavily. Of course, his mind leapt to the worst possible conclusion based on very little evidence. 

 

He stormed into the room and bellowed. "Oi, what the _fuck_ is going on?" 

 

Arthur and Georgey separated immediately and the man stared in surprise at Eames. "Eamesy!" he cried and had the nerve to smile. "Mate, look, I know you didn't want me swingin' 'round here, but Arthur here asked me to teach him to fight."

 

"Eames! Hi!" Arthur said, smiling brightly as he crossed the room and greeted him with a kiss. The boy was flushed in the face but looked positively giddy. "I'm really good, Georgey says!" Eames blinked and looked back to his friend.

 

"It's true," Georgey confirmed and grinned, the prat. "He should know how to fight," he added pointedly and Eames instantly understood. 

 

Trigger wasn't the only man out there who Arthur would have to defend himself against, and unlike Stephan or Trigger, Arthur trusted Georgey because he viewed him more as Eames' friend than the extremely dangerous manager of an underground crime circuit. He was reminded once again that Arthur was still very young.

 

"What's he teaching you? I'm a better boxer, you know," Eames said, seized by the irrational desire to make Arthur understand he was the superior fighter — because Eames could be petty like that frequently, particularly when it came to Arthur. 

 

The boy laughed. "Yeah, but you won't hit me. We did western boxing, Muay Thai, Judo — I'm really good at the throws — and Jiu-Jitsu, which I'm also a boss at," he rambled.

 

"You did all this here?" he asked disbelievingly and stared at their tiny flat.

 

"Well, as much as we could manage," Georgey responded. "There's a MMA gym nearby, mate. You should let me take him. He's a bloody prodigy, I'm tellin' ya."

 

"No, absolutely not," Eames responded automatically. He'd grown accustomed to viewing the outside world with the utmost suspicion. The world was a dark, terrible place, and Arthur was a ray of light. If he mingled with those terrible people, he'd become one of them, or the world would crush his gentle spirit. That was probably a mildly insane thought, but Eames had come to terms with his madness a long time ago.

 

" _Please_ , Eames," and goddamnit, Arthur used his sad puppy eyes when he stepped close to him. "It's just down the road and Georgey will be with me."

 

"They're good blokes there, Eamesy, and are you going to keep him locked up here forever like Rapunzel?" Georgey asked and grinned. "Because, I'll be honest, mate, his hair isn't gonna be long enough for _years_."

 

Arthur grinned broadly and tugged at Eames' hoodie strings. "Yeah, for _years_ ," he echoed and he looked so happy and excited Eames couldn't bear to deny him anything.

 

"Just to the gym and back, yeah?" Eames looked at Georgey pointedly and the man crossed his heart in response. The young man looked at Arthur and sighed before he moved to cup his face. "Whatever you want, pengting."

 

Georgey exploded with laughter when Arthur practically pounced Eames and he stumbled a second before he could support the boy's weight. Arthur wrapped his legs around Eames' waist and kissed his face. "Oh my God, thank you! You're the best. This is going to be so awesome."

 

Eames laughed too, unable to help himself. It was a weirdly happy, normal moment, all things considered.

 

***

Arthur, or _doll face_ as Georgey referred to him, turned out to be a very good fighter. He was small, but quick, and he excelled at Jiu-Jitsu because — and Eames knew this from experience — he was incredibly flexible. Initially, he hadn't approved of Arthur and Georgey's friendship, especially when the nickname first reared its ugly head. However, Arthur squashed the flare of jealousy he felt one day as Eames stood around and sulked as he watched the boy pack his gym bag.

 

"For God's sake, Eames. Georgey is straight as an arrow," he laughed fondly.

 

"Yeah, but _doll face_ ," Eames said, totally irrational at that point. Arthur laughed again and kissed him before he left. _Bloody Georgey._

 

Their friendship soon exceeded the perimeters of the gym, as the paranoid part of Eames' brain had always known it would. Soon, Georgey also insisted on taking Arthur to the shooting range, and of course the boy also excelled at that because Arthur was brilliant at everything he tried.

 

"It's fer his own protection!" Georgey said casually when Eames confronted him about it. "Every man should know how to fire a gun, Eamesy," and really, he couldn't argue with that, so he stewed, miserable and jealous until Arthur returned and kissed the silly thoughts from his head.

 

***

 

When Arthur turned sixteen, Eames bought them a new flat with a beautiful bed in an _actual bed frame_ and they fucked on it until the headboard banged against the wall and their neighbors shouted and pounded on their door angrily. Not a great way to ingratiate themselves to the neighborhood, but a bloody fine housewarming, Eames concluded. The apartment was in a much nicer neighborhood where Arthur could go buy groceries and sit in a cafe without Eames worrying about him.

 

Eames was eighteen when he was promoted to Georgey's right hand man, despite Trigger's objections. Being Georgey's right hand man meant that Eames was officially done with the days of keeping his hands relatively clean of the nastier side of their business. He'd seen three men executed by Trigger and now he had to help dispose of the bodies. He was also responsible for weighing the drugs and counting the cash and following Georgey around town as extra muscle. This meant he had to act the part of mean-looking bastard. He'd filled out a bit naturally as he got older, but he'd also started going to the gym with Arthur and suspected he'd begun to cut a bit of an imposing physique. That suspicion was confirmed one day when he caught Arthur staring at him in their kitchen.

 

"What?" he asked and looked down at his t-shirt, expecting to see a giant tea stain or something. 

 

Arthur looked thoughtful as he eyed him. "Your…uh…that shirt is really tight on you." He may have actually licked his lips.

 

"Oh. Yeah, think I need to go a size up or som—"

 

Then Arthur was on him, biting and lapping at his lips as they knocked things off the kitchen island. He'd never undressed so quickly in his life, and he was fairly certain Arthur was a witch because suddenly he was naked and whispering extremely perverted things in his ear. Eames used olive oil to slick his cock and fucked Arthur against the counter as the boy panted, thrust back against him, and begged for him to do it harder. In that moment, Eames decided he was going to the gym every bloody day for the rest of his life.

 

Lovely sex with lovely Arthur aside, the job wore on him quickly. He was a thug and scoundrel, but in his heart, Eames wasn't a murderer. But it seemed as though his life options had narrowed to a single road he marched along inexorably, unable to pivot or turn around.

 

Therefore, it was inevitable when Georgey finally pulled him aside one day and said, "You're solo on this one, bruv."

 

Eames had never killed anyone before. Sure, he'd aided and abetted, but he'd never pulled the trigger himself, and a childlike part of his brain always assumed that would be the case because that nasty business was for chavs like Trigger, but not him. He was just a poor kid who got a bum rap from life. He wasn't a _monster_.

 

"Who is it?" he asked bleakly, unable to keep the dread from his voice.

 

"We hired 'im and 'is team fer a job and they didn't come through, so we gotta make it square," Georgey replied dispassionately, and it sounded like fair reasoning to Eames. He didn't ask what the job was or who the poor bastard was because those details didn't matter. The Queen of England could be the target for all it mattered to Eames. All he had to do was pull the trigger.

 

Georgey motioned to the guards at the warehouse door and they went outside. There came the sound of scuffling and muffled shouts and then they dragged a man inside, a canvas bagged pulled over his face. This was traditionally how they performed hits so the executioner wasn't put off by something like the sight of human desperation in the person's eyes.

 

"Take 'im to the spot and do it. Use the van outside. There' s also somethin' on the passenger seat I need you to keep for a while. Just 'til things die down. We'll deal with that later," Georgey explained calmly as he stared down at the man who knelt before them and shook uncontrollably. Eames instantly realized this wasn't a rival gang member. He was probably a civilian.

 

"P-please…I'm not even who you're looking for!" the man begged. He was American and his voice sounded young — maybe only a few years older than himself. This was probably some head guy's right hand, which made things oddly personal for Eames. He briefly imagined kneeling on the floor with a bag pulled over his head as punishment for someone else's crime.

 

"Quiet," Georgey said and his booming voice echoed in the cavernous warehouse. Just like that, the warm, affable Georgey, who sparred with Arthur and called him doll face, was gone. In his place stood the cold, calculating creature rival gangs called _George the Terrible_. "I'm sick of hearin' 'is voice. Get 'im out of my sight."

 

***

Eames climbed into the driver's seat and watched the boys load the other young man in the back and zip tie him to the armrest so he couldn't get the jump on Eames as he drove. He glanced to the passenger seat and saw a steel briefcase laying there. The urge to open it gripped him, but he decided against it. Plausible deniability and all that.

 

They drove in silence for a long time, and for a second, Eames imagined this might be easy. Maybe he was a killer after all. Maybe they'd get to the spot and he'd make this stranger kneel in the mud and he'd shoot him, no problem. He'd go back to Arthur and kiss him and everything would be as it had been before.

 

Then the young man started to beg again.

 

"Please..I don't know who you are, but…it doesn't have to be this way. It's my boss you're after. Look, I'm just an assistant. I have a _fiance_ , please…" 

 

Eames swore beneath his breath and turned on the radio and blasted hip hop so he couldn't hear the man plead for his life.

 

When they reached the overpass and he took the access road under the bridge, Eames cut the music to avoid drawing any attention. A river ran under the freeway and the currents were useful because they carried away heavy objects, like bodies, and carried them far away into the sea. He parked the van, opened the door, and cut the ties before he yanked out the man and threw him on the ground. When the man tried to get up on his hands and knees, Eames placed his boot against his back and shoved him back down so he could tie his hands again. He then pulled him up onto his knees and drew the gun from the waistband of his pants.

 

Before he could think, he cocked it and placed it against the back of the man's skull.

 

"Wait! Jesus Christ! _Wait!_ " the man cried, and for a long time after that moment, Eames would always wonder why he obeyed. Or why they hadn't gagged him.

 

He didn't pull the trigger. He waited.

 

"That briefcase in the van. It's is _extremely_ valuable, but your boss won't know what to do with it."

 

That intrigued Eames and he shoved the barrel of the gun against the man's skull, pitching him forward slightly. "How valuable?"

 

"You heard of dream-sharing?"

 

Eames was silent as he warily looked from the man to the van. Of course he'd heard of dream-sharing. Georgey frequently hired illegal dream-sharing teams to infiltrate the minds of rival gangs and steal their secrets, but he'd never met a real-life dream worker. He had to admit, he found the experience seriously underwhelming so far. Eames had always imagined the dreamers were professional criminals just like him and Georgey, but this man seemed like a civilian or an academic or something. The whole situation stank of bullshit, and for the first time ever, Eames found himself questioning Georgey's motives. He sighed and bent down to yank the bag off the man's head.

 

The young man scrambled a bit and squinted when he finally looked up. As he suspected, the bloke was young — early 20s at the most — with dark blond hair and blue eyes.  When Eames said nothing, the man seemed to think that was his cue to continue pleading.

 

"I promise you, I earn _in an hour_ what you make in a year."

 

"Yeah?" Eames asked blandly and found himself thinking about Arthur in that moment. "So..what's the play, then? Let's say I don't kill you…"

 

The bloke's eyes brightened like he sensed the possibility of escape. "Just tell your boss you did it and I'll show you how to use it."

 

"You'll teach me to be a dream worker?"

 

"Yes, of course. Whatever you want," he conceded desperately.

 

Eames thought about a life without drugs and crying women — where he only shot if someone else shot first. He thought about making mountains of cash in relatively little time and spending the rest of his time rolling in bed with Arthur. Maybe they'd move somewhere far away like Asia or Africa. Somewhere no one could ever find them.

 

He took out his pocket knife and cut the man free. When they were back in the van, the American cradled the case on his lap and placed his hands against it protectively, like the thing contained the meaning of life or something.

 

"I'm Dom," he said and held out his hand, in one of the most ridiculous moments of Eames' life. Eames just looked at him until he lowered his hand.

 

"Look, mate," he said. "I'm sure yer just some poor sap, but know I just put my life in yer hands, so you best not cross me."

 

"I won't. I promise, Mr….?"

 

"Eames."

 

"Yes, Eames. I swear. This thing right here…" he said as he stroked the case lovingly. "This will make us all very rich. You have my word."


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> omg really long update you guys.  
> Dreaming!  
> Smut!  
> Birthday!  
> Georgey!
> 
> This chapter switches from Eames POV, to Arthur POV, back to Eames POV.

Eames took the man back to their flat and immediately demanded to see inside the steel briefcase. Dom obliged, kneeling in the main room and opening the thing on the floor. It was a little like looking under the hood of a car and he felt mildly disappointed until Dom pulled out two cords and extended one in his direction. 

 

"Here. I'll help you insert the needle," Dom said, distracted as he examined the rest of the buttons and wires.

 

"Woah, hold on, mate. Needle?" Eames examined the end of the cord and frowned at the hypodermic needle.

 

The other man rolled up his sleeve to the elbow. "It's not dangerous and I cleaned the needles earlier. Here," and suddenly he leaned over, yanked up Eames' sleeve, and slid the needle in so fast he really didn't have another chance to raise an objection. There was a small pricking pain and Eames only managed a soft _Oi_ of objection before the deed was done and the needle rested inside his vein. "It's so the Somnacin can enter your system," and when Eames stared back at him blankly, Dom clarified: "The stuff that lets us dream."

 

Dom slid the other needle into his arm and laid down. When his hand hovered over a button inside the case, he looked at Eames. "You may want to lay down."

 

He frowned, but obeyed, and wiggled a little on the carpet to get comfortable. His last conscious thought was that this was stupid and Dom was probably a bloody junky when all of a sudden the waking world fell away and they were standing in a green field. Dom smiled broadly at him. "See? Pretty incredible, huh?"

 

Eames blinked and stared out across the landscape, which did seem a little too vibrant beneath the intensely blue sky. "So this is a dream?"

 

"This is _my_ dream," Dom corrected. "I built this field."

 

"So we could have gone anywhere and you brought us here?" he asked, brows raised, a smirk on his lips. Fields didn't impress Eames. They always used to park the campers in them and so this was a bit nostalgic for him, but not _dreamlike_ , per se. 

 

Dom scowled. "This is the launch pad. It's what I can keep stable," and when Eames looked confused by that comment, he went on, "If you change things in the dream, it becomes unstable and collapses. That's what we were working at BDI— the, uh, British Dream Institute. The staff was having trouble keeping the dream stable longer than a couple minutes. The more complicated the dream, the quicker it collapses."

 

Eames hummed thoughtfully as he ran his hand along the tall blades of grass. They felt real. Everything felt real. He had to give Dom credit for that — uninspired as it might be, the field felt authentic.

 

When he looked up from the grass, there were suddenly two campers parked ahead of them in the middle of the field. One of the doors opened and a young Arthur walked down the steps.

 

"Who is that?" was the last thing he heard Dom say.

 

Eames felt frozen in place. Arthur stood in front of the camper, skinny, his face slightly bruised.

 

"Arthur," he whispered before the dream collapsed around them. Eames awoke violently and gasped as he stared up at the popcorn ceiling. When he sat up and moved to pull the needle from his arm, he saw Arthur — the real Arthur — kneeling beside him. He looked terrified as he stared at Eames' arm and then the machine.

 

"What is that?" he asked, his voice wavering.

 

"Pet…" Eames began, his tongue heavy in his mouth. Stringing words together suddenly seemed like a Herculean task. Must have been a side effect of the Somnacin. Details were beginning to creep inside his sluggish brain: Arthur's gym bag was beside him. He must have just gotten home. There were tears in his eyes and he looked pale. Arthur probably thought he busted Eames in the middle of a drug orgy or something.

 

"Who're you?" the young man asked angrily in Dom's direction.

 

"Dominic Cobb," and to his credit, the man sounded more coherent than Eames felt. He'd already put the lines away, shut the case, and stood along with Arthur to shake his hand in greeting. Arthur looked less than thrilled to be meeting him, but he at least gripped the American's hand. "You must be Arthur," he said, recognizing the young man from Eames' dream. Arthur responded with frosty silence. "I can imagine how this looks, but let me explain: that's a PASIV," he said and pointed at the case. "It's a machine for lucid dreaming. We were just under because I insisted on showing Eames the ropes."

 

 _Good man_. Eames stood, still feeling groggy. He tried his best to look respectable when he realized Arthur was eyeing him warily. "It's safe?" the young man asked.

 

"Absolutely. I'm a trained PASIV technician." 

 

Arthur looked slightly placated at that. "How do you know Eames?"

 

"Dom's a mate of mine, pengting. He's gonna be staying with us for a bit." 

 

It wasn't like Arthur to question the decisions Eames made on behalf of their home, but he looked wary at that bit of news. He shifted his weight to his other leg and stared down at his gym bag, and for a second, Eames wondered if he might put his foot down and throw the both of them out. But then he bent down to pick up his bag and said, "I'll get the air mattress," and then disappeared inside the bedroom.

 

Eames gave the other man the universal signal for _One second, I'm having a domestic_ , and followed Arthur. He could tell the younger man was angry by the way he unpacked and threw the clothes into the hamper. All of his movements were clipped and slightly violent like he was trying to take out his anger on the laundry. Arthur rarely yelled, but he was a door slammer. He made inanimate objects feel the wrath of his fury so he wouldn't have to yell at Eames.

 

"I'm sorry, love. I know I should have told you, but it was last minute stuff," Eames said from the doorway, leaned against the frame slightly as he watched Arthur.

 

"If he's a _mate_ of yours, how come you've never mentioned him before?" Arthur asked accusingly and threw his empty gym bag to the corner.

 

Eames sighed and rubbed at his face. "I've got lots of mates I don't mention to you because I don't see them anymore. Look, just…Dom needs help, so we need to help him," and though the argument sounded extremely weak to his own ears, he could tell Arthur was gradually coming out of battle mode — probably because of his unending trust for Eames. That knowledge made him feel slightly sick to his stomach. Of course Arthur believed him. He'd believe Eames if he'd said they needed to protect Dom because he was the last unicorn.

 

"Okay," Arthur murmured, and actually looked sheepish, like he thought he'd been the one in the wrong the whole time. Eames immediately crossed the room and wrapped his arms around the younger man. He kissed the top of his head and his cheeks before pressing their mouths together in a tender kiss.

 

"If Georgey comes 'round, don't tell him about the PASIV or Dom," and in a normal situation with a normal couple, that would have been grounds for a whole new round of fighting. But for Arthur, it simply meant extending his trust for Eames a little further, which he was always willing to do. 

 

"Okay," he said again.

 

"Good boy," Eames whispered and gazed down at Arthur's face. The young man looked back at him and they were quiet for a moment. Eames ran his fingers along Arthur's back and felt him shiver slightly. "I dreamed about you," he said softly.

 

Arthur almost smiled. "Yeah?"

 

He kissed the younger man and felt Arthur melt against as he parted his lips and allowed Eames to push his tongue inside his mouth, drawing a soft moan from him. _Christ_. This happened a lot with them. One second, they were fighting, and the next practically dry humping. But then he heard Dom move outside in the living room and he snapped out of his daze. Eames separated from Arthur and stepped back.

 

"I'll…get the air mattress," Arthur rasped, dazed, his lips a little red and swollen.

 

"Yeah…you should….thanks, pengting," he answered uselessly and walked from the room to help Dom get situated.

 

***

 

It took about a week for Arthur to get fully accustomed to the idea of Dom living with them. To his credit, the other American was a good houseguest: very neat, polite, and he deflated the air mattress and put it away every day so the living room wouldn't be cluttered even though it took him an eternity to re-inflate it at night. When they were alone together, he showed Arthur the PASIV and taught him the various parts, but he hadn't worked up the courage to go under just yet. Arthur hated drinking and never did drugs, so the idea of jamming a needle in his arm made him uncomfortable. A couple times, he'd sat on the couch and watched Eames and Dom go under, and they didn't look like they were in distress. He told himself one day he'd try it. Maybe.

 

One afternoon, he came home from the gym and was making himself a sandwich in the kitchen when Eames emerged from the bedroom and announced he and Dom had to go out, and Georgey would be coming by.

 

"Remember: don't mention the PASIV or Dom, all right, pengting?" 

 

Something about the situation made him feel squeamish. Generally, Arthur tried not to lie. He wasn't very good at it, and besides, it was wrong. Any time he'd tried to do it when he was little, he caught a beating for it — not that Georgey would ever hurt him, but he respected and loved the man and hated to be deceitful. Still, Eames asked him for this favor and he would oblige. When he nodded mutely, Eames kissed his temple and left with Dom.

 

As promised, Georgey arrived about an hour later. 

 

"Doll face!" the man bellowed in greeting and Arthur smiled as he held the door open for him. Georgey had one of those presences that lit up the whole room and Arthur always felt a little safer when he was around. "All right? Where's my Eamesy?"

 

"You just missed him. He went out to run some errands," Arthur answered as he walked into the kitchen so he wouldn't have to look at Georgey as he lied.

 

"Too bad," he heard the man answer as he walked into the living room and glanced around. "How're you, doll face? Still sparrin' and breakin' bones?" Arthur grinned broadly when Georgey stepped into the kitchen and threw some mock punches his way. 

 

"You know it," he laughed as he tidied up a bit in the kitchen in order to keep his hands busy. 

 

"Yer man takin' care of you? Have everything you need?"

 

Arthur rolled his eyes good-naturedly. Georgey always asked him that — like he was some poor shut-in housewife. "Yes, yes," he answered and laughed again when Georgey threw a slow, sloppy hook his way and he easily blocked it and countered with a gentle body shot.

 

"Oof! See? I knew you was a killer," he cried, pretending the shot gravely wounded him. Arthur laughed and playfully shoved him again. "All right, you tell your man I came 'round askin' fer him, yeah? I got some out-of-town business the next couple weeks. Tell 'im I'll be in touch."

 

Arthur nodded. "I will. Definitely."

 

Georgey ruffled his hair and before Arthur could squawk indignantly, he was already at the front door. "Cheers, doll face! Be good!"

 

***

 

Georgey being away for a couple weeks doing God knows what afforded them plenty of time to experiment with dreaming. The only problem was, Dom could never keep the dream stable for more than a few minutes at a time, so they kept having to go back under, and they were running low on dosages of Somnacin. Dom rang a friend of his in Mombasa, of all places, and ordered more for them.

 

"He's a good guy. Best in the business. Only Somnacin I use," Dom kept saying as if it made the whole situation less dodgy.

 

Eames helped the American fetch some files from his home one afternoon that pertained to the job he'd been working for Georgey. They had to wait until his fiance left for work in the morning before entering their flat, and Eames only caught a glimpse of her, but he could tell she was young and pretty. Dom looked pained just seeing her for that split second and Eames had to talk him out of doing something stupid like leaving a note for her.

 

"You'll see her soon enough," he said as they gathered files in a cardboard box once they were inside the apartment.

 

"She's going to notice all this stuff is missing anyway," Dom countered.

 

"Sorry mate. You'll just have to let her wonder."

 

When they returned to Eames place, they dumped the box on the living room coffee table in front of Arthur who was sprawled out on the couch, reading a book.

 

"What's that?" he asked curiously, already moving to look at the files.

 

"Dom here was working for Georgey on a job," Eames answered vaguely as slipped out of his jacket.

 

"Stealing, you mean," Arthur said as he flipped open a manila file and started reading. Eames paused and stared back at the younger man, dumbstruck. They never talked about his job — not even in polite euphemisms, so he was a little startled to hear Arthur state things so plainly. 

 

Arthur looked up eventually. "I'm not stupid. I know what you do," he said. "I mean, maybe not every little detail, but the gist. You guys steal and stuff, right?"

 

 _And stuff_ , Eames thought miserably. "Yeah, pengting," he murmured. He imagined Arthur was thinking about when they were little and stole stuff from convenience stores to survive. Like that, but bigger. Better to let him believe that version than the actual terrible reality.

 

Dom sat beside Arthur on the couch and pointed at the files. "We were supposed to…interview some associates of George Parker— um, _Georgey_ , as you say. But the problem was, we couldn't keep the dream stable long enough to do it."

 

"Shouldn't you have figured that out before you took the job?" Eames asked

 

Dom sighed and shook his head. "Yeah, I brought up that point, but you don't understand. This stuff is all super experimental. It's hard to get funding for proper trials, so this was a bit…off the books. We wanted to see what would happen if we put someone under who wasn't already a dreamer — if maybe it would help with the stabilization process if the subject wasn't aware they were dreaming."

 

Eames smirked. "So you thought you'd do experiments on the mob?"

 

"Like I said, it wasn't the best plan in the world," Dom sighed.

 

"I thought you said it was safe," Arthur broke in and looked up from reading one of the files. He set his gaze squarely on Dom.

 

"What?" Dom asked, his brow furrowed.

 

"You said this is all _experimental_ , but you've been saying it's safe when you go under with Eames."

 

"Ah, well, yeah. It _is_ safe, but it's _experimental_ in the sense that we can't stabilize the dreams," he clarified. Arthur didn't look fully sold on the explanation, but he didn't say anything. Instead, he dropped his gaze to the file and kept reading.

 

***

Eames learned how to dream in increments. It was strange to engage in a series of two-minute lessons, but slowly he learned how to construct the foundation of a dream. He saw why Dom chose to perfect his little green field because anything more complicated would inevitably make the entire dream crash around them. So Eames started by recreating Dom's field, except with a few minor changes. He put in the creek from their old camp, and he was even able to construct Roger's camper, but then Arthur would inevitably appear at the door and the whole thing fell apart.

 

"Stop thinking of Arthur!" Dom finally shouted around the sixth time the dream collapsed.

 

Arthur looked up from a file and smiled at Eames.

 

"Would if I could, mate," he answered and grinned at the younger man.

 

***

He still occasionally ran errands for Georgey after they chatted via phone — just to keep up appearances so no one would notice he'd gone off the map in his preparation to escape into the world of dreamsharing. But the weekends were set aside for dreaming, save for one glorious afternoon when the temperature soared, by UK standards anyway, and he busted out the grill to cook up some sausages and burgers on their balcony. Copping it sweet outside beneath the sun's gorgeous rays in his boxers and wifebeater as he enjoyed a beer and occasionally flipped the burgers, it was almost possible to forget he was employed by a psychotic murderer whilst he dipped his toe in the shady underground world of illegal dreaming.

 

He was going to let himself enjoy this moment. His birthday was next week and he'd earned this moment of serenity, damnit.

 

Dom stuck his head outside. "Almost done?"

 

"Five minutes," he answered and took a swig from his bottle. He heard the front door open then, and he sang out, "Peeeengtiiiing, baaaaby." Arthur had returned from when he'd popped out earlier to go shopping. Dom disappeared inside and he could hear the two Americans converse briefly before Arthur stepped out onto the balcony, carrying a couple bags from the shops.

 

"Success?" he asked and rolled the sausages on the grill.

 

"Yeah, I got— that smells really good — I got some shirts, couple pairs of pants, underwear. The usual," Arthur answered as he stepped close to the grill and leaned over a bit to examine their lunch.

 

"New knickers, hm?" he hummed and gave Arthur the side-eye before he grinned lecherously.

 

Arthur rolled his eyes and elbowed him in the ribs lightly. "Pervert," but he laughed and kissed his cheek.

 

"Gonna put on a show for me later?" Eames asked, eyeing Arthur's rear when the young man turned to walk back inside the apartment. Arthur looked over his shoulder and grinned his way.

 

"Maybe," then he disappeared inside. It took Eames about five more minutes to finishing grilling, which was for the best because he was already half hard inside his boxers from the thought of Arthur walking around in nothing but his briefs.

 

After they ate lunch and cleaned up in the kitchen, Eames followed Arthur into the bedroom like a lost puppy and watched helplessly as he laid out all his naughty garments on the bed.

 

"Oh, stop it," Arthur chastised, laughing when he saw Eames and his wide eyes.

 

"Oi, _you_ stop it. I'm not the one who came home with a bag of lacy bits."

 

"There's no _lace_. It's just underwear. See?" Arthur held up a tiny pair of briefs that probably made his ass look like a delicious apple when he wore them. Eames might have actually moaned when he saw them because Arthur rolled his eyes. "Go help Dom inflate his mattress," he said and chased Eames from the bedroom.

 

***

Arthur was a terrible, vicious cocktease, and Eames decided to be deeply resentful of him right up until that night when Arthur walked into the bedroom wearing a robe and sat Eames down on the edge of the bed.

 

"I got you a birthday present," he said and smiled beautifully. 

 

Eames instantly forgot he was angry and perked up. "Yeah?" 

 

Arthur hummed in the affirmative and untied his robe. He shrugged his shoulders and the material slipped off his shoulders and pooled at his feet. The younger man was wearing one of the new pairs of underwear he'd bought — the black pair that made his legs appear a mile long and his package look mouthwatering. "Fucking hell," Eames said as he exhaled. "Turn around. Let me see." He reached forward and gripped Arthur's hips to guide him in a slow, 360-degree circle. His ass did indeed look perfect and Eames leaned forward impulsively to kiss the small of his back. He could hear Arthur laugh as he turned back to face him.

 

"But look. I got your something else, too." Arthur ran his fingers through Eames' hair and then placed his fingers under his chin to tilt the man's face up. Eames stared glassy-eyed at Arthur, powerless to say or do _anything_ as he watched the younger man ease the briefs off his hips to expose the area just below his hipbones. That's when Eames saw it — his name tattooed in curling script along Arthur's pale skin. He stared at the script, momentarily stunned into silence. "Do you like it?" Arthur asked, nervous. 

 

For the first time in a very long time, Eames felt like he might cry, but instead he grabbed the younger man and pulled him down onto the bed and rolled on top of him. "I love it. It's perfect. You're perfect," he whispered and leaned down to kiss him. When Arthur's tongue slid into his mouth, Eames groaned and reached down to cup between the young man's legs. 

 

Arthur broke the kiss quickly. "Wait…We can't. Dom's right out there," he whispered, his cheeks already pink.

 

Eames leaned down and buried his face in the crook of Arthur's neck to lick and nip at the skin there. "It's my flat," he growled and yanked down Arthur's briefs. "I'll fuck you if I want." Eames pulled down his boxers so he could feel Arthur's cock against his own when he ground his hips forward.

 

" _Fuck_ , Eames," Arthur gasped and grabbed at the back of Eames' wifebeater, pulling and yanking at the fabric.

 

He leaned back to pull Arthur's underwear off and so he could undress unencumbered. Eames grabbed Arthur by the waist and pulled him down the bed and then rolled him over before he leaned down and stuck his face between Arthur's ass cheeks to lap at his entrance — just because he felt like being a wanker about the Dom situation. Arthur was usually vocal during sex, but he went absolutely mad when Eames did this. Sure enough, the young man cried out loudly and grabbed a pillow to bury his face against it and muffled his cries as Eames shoved his tongue inside his hole.

 

Eames pulled away so he could reach over to the beside table and find the lube. While he slicked his cock, Arthur writhed on the bed in front of him and spread his legs, sticking his ass up in the air temptingly. He wasn't interested in fucking him that way though, so Eames rolled him over until Arthur could no longer conceal his moaning. Arthur knew exactly what he was up to and scowled adorably at him. Eames grinned and rested the young man's calf against his shoulder. "Let me hear you, darling," he ordered and reached down to guide his dick inside his hole.

 

Because he hadn't stretched Arthur beforehand, the drag was slow and the young man arched his back, crying out helplessly until Eames hips rested against the curve of his rear. He fucked Arthur hard, basking in the sounds of his cries and the bed slamming against the wall, and the sensation of Arthur's unrelenting tight warmth gripping his cock. This part was _good_ — so good, and Eames wondered if it would always be like this — if he'd ever get tired of seeing Arthur fall apart like this. He didn't think he would.

 

"Oh please. _Please,"_ Arthur begged, his eyes pinched shut and his lips hanging agape as Eames fucked him. He was totally lost in his own thoughts and the feeling of the vice-like hold Arthur's muscles had on his dick, so he didn't know what the young man was asking for until he looked down and saw his prick leaking across his chest. He realized Arthur was asking permission to come. Eames smirked down at him and allowed Arthur's legs to support a bit of his weight as he leaned forward. 

 

"Not 'til I come," he ordered, frankly impressed he was able to string together words. Arthur moaned softly and it sounded pained and frustrated and one of his hands flew up to rest against his brow, like he had to focus intently on not coming in order to last. With his free hand, Arthur gripped the base of his dick and squeezed in a desperate attempt to stave off his orgasm.

 

Eames had begun to sweat and a few drops of perspiration fell from his forehead onto Arthur's chest as he moved atop him, the charms around his neck clattering in mid-air and occasionally brushing against Arthur's stomach. He leaned down and swallowed another agonized groan as it passed Arthur's lips. He slowed his thrusts to deep, careful strokes that left Arthur trembling beneath him.

 

"Please.." Arthur whispered against his lips. Eames kissed his brow and propped against his arms so he could resume fucking Arthur roughly. He was close… _so_ close, and distantly, he could hear the young man begging him, but he was too far gone to articulately respond. He came with a roar, buried to the hilt inside Arthur and fell forward. Dimly, he felt Arthur jerking himself frantically and then moaning hoarsely when he found his release, and he should have felt like an asshole for not finishing off Arthur, but he eased his conscience by reminding himself it was his birthday. He was allowed to be selfish on his birthday.

 

"Fuuuuck," he moaned when Arthur pushed him off and he fell to the side. He heard the younger man laughing — at him, probably. He was a bloody mess. The bed dipped when Arthur climbed off to fetch some tissues and tidy up both of them. He wrapped an arm around him when he returned and smirked when Arthur kissed his chest.

 

"Good birthday?" Arthur asked, smiling at him.

 

Eames groaned, still feeling like he just got run over by a Mac truck. "Fucking immense," he said and kissed him. Before he fell asleep, he reached down and lightly ran his fingers over Arthur's new tattoo.

 

***

The next day, Dom didn't look at either of them as he sat in the living room on the couch and they milled around the kitchen. When Arthur handed him a cup of coffee, Dom stared at the floor and mumbled his thanks. Eames walked around grinning the entire morning, ignoring Arthur's vicious glares and revelling in Dom's embarrassed flush.

 

Arthur finally broke the ice later in the afternoon when he looked up from a file as he sat on the couch and casually said, "I know why the dreams keep collapsing."

 

Dom and Eames stared at him dumbly from their places on the floor. They'd just woken up from a third round of dreaming, and they'd managed to last three minutes before the field opened up beneath their feet and swallowed them.

 

"Uh…why?" Dom asked finally.

 

"You're focusing too much on every little detail. I can tell from the way you file the reports — I mean, you mention the _specific kind of grass_ , Dom. Saint Augustine. Who cares about the type of grass? Grass is grass," he said as he closed the file.

 

Dom furrowed his brow and stared at him. "But…it has to be convincing or someone will know it's a dream."

 

"Yeah, but you're overwhelming yourself. I'll show you," Arthur said as he stood up and then joined them on the floor. 

 

Eames stared at him, surprised. "Pengting, you sure?" he asked as he watched the young man unfurl a third line. Arthur hated drugs and certainly had never injected himself with anything. 

 

"Yeah. Help me with this," Arthur responded with such assuredness that Eames simply obeyed and slid the needle into his arm. When he hit the button, the three of them were in the field. Except…it was slightly different in a way Eames couldn't place. Maybe it was because Arthur was the dreamer this time.

 

"See? It's the same, but I'm not obsessing over everything. The grass is just grass."

 

As Arthur spoke, Eames examined the field more closely. He was right. It wasn't as vivid as Dom's grass, but it looked…real. Like grass. Nothing Eames would think to look twice at if he was casually viewing the landscape. Most importantly, the dream was stable. Eames walked around to see if his movements would trigger everything to fall apart, but nothing changed or even shifted minutely in warning. By far, this was the most solid dream he'd ever been in.

 

"You learned this just from reading my reports?" Dom asked as he stood beside Arthur.

 

The younger man shrugged. "I like reading," as if that explained anything _._

 

Dom smirked and shook his head a little. "Arthur, this is _impressive_. This is better work than anyone ever managed at BDI."

 

"Fuck yeah. I told you. Pengting is quality, bruv," Eames crowed across the field.

 

"What does pengting mean?" Dom asked curiously.

 

"Nothing," Arthur answered quickly. "Let's keep exploring."

 

***

 

They walked through the field for a full uninterrupted hour. Finally, Dom announced he was ready to wake up and write a report on what they'd discovered, and that's when he stepped off a cliff. Arthur immediately freaked out, shouting and trying to look over the edge to where Dom had fallen as Eames grabbed him around the waist and attempted to quiet him. When the timer ran out, the two of them stared, appalled, as Dom casually scribbled notes on the couch. 

 

"Oi! What the fuck, mate?" Eames cried. 

 

Dom looked up, surprised. "What?"

 

"You jumped off a cliff!" Arthur shouted.

 

"Hm? Oh, yeah. You can wake up that way. If you die in a dream, you wake up," Dom murmured, his attention fixated on his file once more. "Arthur, you're a genius."

 

Arthur was upset. He was breathing hard, which meant he was either going to cry or he was trying not to yell — maybe both. He quickly packed his line and then stood up, crossed the room, and snatched the file from Dom's lap.

 

"When were you going to _tell_ us that?"

 

"Tell you what?"

 

"The dying thing!" And yes, he was definitely upset. Arthur almost never raised his voice. Eames stood up quickly — not to stop Arthur, but to keep his eyes on Dom. If the man yelled at Arthur, he didn't know what he'd do, but he wanted to at least get in a proper fighting stance.

 

Dom stared at him for a couple moments before he answered. "I forgot. I'm sorry. A lot of this stuff is second nature to me."

 

"You _forgot_ ," Arthur scoffed, throwing up his hands. "Anything else you're _forgetting_ to tell us?" he asked accusingly. 

 

Dom actually paused for a second and stared off into space, like he was mulling over the question. "You may stop dreaming in real life. Side effect of the Somnacin, " he answered finally, and Dom probably thought that would earn him brownie points for honesty, but Arthur gaped back at him, appalled.

 

"You're a liar!" He finally shouted and stormed off to the bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

 

***

Eames managed to calm Arthur down enough that he eventually came back out and could be in a room with Dom without yelling at him. They continued to go under together as a team, exploring and noting their discoveries. One session, they were under in Eames' dream when one of the campers emerged in the field again. Feeling confident the dream would remain stable, they ascended the steps and threw open the door only to find a young Eames fucking a young Arthur from behind on the couch.

 

After they'd fled down the steps and ran across the field a safe distance, Arthur turned on Dom and fixed him with a glare so fierce that the other American started babbling an apology. 

 

"Right, sorry. Projections! They're called projections. Um…if you have a history with another person, they can sometimes…pop up if your mind wanders…a bit," Dom babbled, glancing from Arthur to Eames. "And…you two have a history…clearly.." he sounded vaguely miserable having reached that conclusion.

 

"You!" Arthur said and pointed at Eames accusingly. "Stop being a pervert and focus."

 

Eames grinned back at him, completely unrepentant. "Aw, c'mon, it's a compliment!" he shouted his reasoning at Arthur's back as the young man stalked away angrily. "There's a projection of you dancing in a negligee somewhere in this field. Just brace yerself, pengting!"

 

Arthur found that projection about twenty minutes later and screamed bloody murder until they all woke up.

 

***

 

The first time they killed themselves in a dream, Arthur couldn't summon the courage to throw himself off a cliff so he laid between Eames' legs and reclined against his chest as they sat beneath an oak tree. The barrel of a gun rested against the bottom of his chin, Eames' finger on the trigger while Arthur whispered _it's okay…it's okay._ Eames kissed his temple before he shot him. He really didn't expect to react as violently as he did afterwards, but Dom was good enough to leave Eames alone with Arthur's body as he clung to it and cried into the corpse's hair. 

 

He'd seen a lot of dead bodies. He thought his violent profession had officially desensitized him, but seeing Arthur's lifeless body was a horror unlike anything he'd ever witnessed. Eames was such a mess upon waking that Arthur took his hand and kissed it. "You don't have to do that again," he promised.

 

From then on, Arthur was able to shoot himself. Eames always looked away when he did it.

 

***

 

Another time, they explored the inside of Arthur's old camper. The younger man grinned as he showed Eames where he used to keep his old comic book stash under his mattress. As Arthur kneeled on the floor and leafed through the issues, Eames smirked at him.

 

"Most kids keep porn under their mattress, darling."

 

Arthur shrugged. "I used to jerk off to some of the superheroes."

 

That caught Eames' attention. "Yeah?" he said, grinning.

 

"Sure. Wolverine is hot. Batman, too," Arthur answered with a smirk.

 

Eames burst out laughing and shook his head before he took another look around the camper. It was so strange to be back there once again, since that fateful night where they'd decided to run. His mind instinctively wandered to Roger. He imagined the man's tall height and the gait of his walk — the long, weathered lines of his face, his bushy eyebrows, and that ridiculous mustache. 

 

When he looked back to Arthur, the young man stared at him in horror. 

 

"What?" he asked, not recognizing his own voice. That was because it _wasn't_ his voice.

 

Arthur scrambled backward and stumbled to his feet. He threw open the camper door and nearly tumbled down the steps when he sprinted down them.

 

"Arthur!" Eames cried in the foreign voice and watched as the young man took off across the field.

 

When they woke, Arthur curled up on the floor and laid there trembling for a while as Eames fussed over him and spoke softly, hoping to comfort him somehow. Dom just kept asking what had happened and Eames offered him a helpless look because he didn't actually know. 

 

"You looked like my father," Arthur finally murmured when he moved to kneel on the floor.

 

Eames stared at him, horrified, but Dom looked intrigued.

 

"You mean he shifted?"

 

"I mean he looked _exactly_ like my father," Arthur spat, but Dom wasn't listening. He furiously scribbled in his finally as he muttered: _Fascinating._

 

Eames felt like shit. "Darling, I'm so sorry," he whispered. Of course, Dom could have no idea about why Eames morphing into the shape of Arthur's father was so terrible, but _he_ knew the truth. He took Arthur's hand and squeezed it gently. The gesture made Arthur's expression soften slightly.

 

"It's okay. I know it was an accident."

 

Dom wanted to go back under immediately to see if Eames could do it again, but he refused until Arthur finally said it was okay, and he too was curious to see Eames try it. 

 

The second attempt was a big fucking disappointment. 

 

The more he focused on it, the less success he had. It wasn't until they were sitting in the field as they talked about the need to go back to Dom's to collect more files that Dom and Arthur suddenly stopped talking and gaped at him.

 

"What?" Eames asked and then froze when he heard his voice come out soft and feminine.

 

"Jesus Christ," Dom whispered, his eyes wide.

 

"You're a girl!" Arthur yelped and then burst out laughing. "That's so cool, Eames. How're you doing that?"

 

Truthfully, he had no idea. He'd just been thinking about Dom's flat and the files and his fiance—Eames looked at Dom. "Do I look like yer girl?" he asked. Dom nodded mutely. 

 

Arthur jumped to his feet. "That's it! You don't focus on how the person _looks_ , you focus on the other stuff — stuff you associate with them. You associated my dad with the camper, and you associate Dom's fiance with his flat!" he cried and beamed at Dom after reaching the conclusion.

 

Dom nodded. "It makes sense. Except, my fiance is French, but there's no way you could know that."

 

"Better, mon amour?" Eames asked in his best French accent.

 

Dom cringed. "That's…perfect, actually."

 

***

They dreamed every free moment of the day, and in between took notes and schemed about what they would do once Georgey got back. They'd decided not to make a run for it just yet until they knew Georgey's next move. Dom wanted to know how much he knew about his life — specifically if his fiance was in danger — before they fled. His fiance, Mal, was a dreamer too, and thought Georgey assumed Dom was dead, he might have been after her as well since she was on the failed team.

 

Georgey emerged a few weeks later when he rang Eames' cell and simply said. "I'm coming over. Have the briefcase ready fer me."

 

Dom stared hesitantly at Eames after he'd conveyed the message. "You can't give it to him. You know that, right?"

 

Eames nodded gravely. Now that he understood the power of the PASIV and lucid dreaming, he knew there was no way he could give the machine to a man like Georgey. 

 

"I won't. I promise." 


	9. Chapter 9

Sometimes Eames made promises without fully thinking through the consequences. He'd sworn to Dom that he wouldn't let Georgey have the PASIV, but he had no clue how he could fulfil that oath. Obviously, he couldn't let it leave the flat in the hands of the mob, but he dreaded to think what Georgey might do if Eames refused him. Earlier, he'd sent Dom away with the case to go burn a couple hours at a nearby cafe, and instead of brainstorming a plan, he spent the remaining time seated on the edge of the couch and nervously bounced his leg while Arthur made him a cup of tea in the kitchen.

 

"It's okay. It's _Georgey_ ," Arthur said when he handed the teacup to Eames. He couldn't even summon the energy to laugh derisively at the young man's naiveté because the whole situation was terrifying and bloody depressing. 

 

"Yeah," he replied and sipped his tea.

 

Georgey arrived at the flat a half an hour later. Eames and Arthur sat together on the couch as the man wandered around their living room, eyeing the posters Arthur had framed and hung on the wall. They were colorful illustrations of places they hadn't been yet, but hoped to visit one day: Paris, Egypt, and China.

 

"This one's nice," Georgey said as he pointed at the Paris image and grinned toothily at Arthur, who mumbled a soft _thank you_. As Georgey drifted across the room, emitting dormant power that, worryingly, reminded Eames of a shark, Stephan and Trigger loomed between the living room and kitchen area, their gazes fixated on Eames and Arthur. 

 

Eventually, Georgey came to a stop in front of the couch and looked at Eames. Silence fell across the room — so heavy and absolute that Eames heard Arthur swallow thickly beside him. "Right, boys. I think we all know what comes next."

 

"Georgey, mate, I got reservations about some things," Eames said.

 

"Don't give a fuck if you got reservations, bruv. Where's the case?" the man countered, staring above Eames' head like he wasn't even worth looking at. 

 

In his periphery, Eames saw Trigger rocking from leg-to-leg like he was warming up to launch himself at the couch. He pressed his feet into the carpet and visualized dropping low to catch Trigger around the legs when he sprinted forward, lifting him up, and sending him crashing through the balcony doors.

 

"Can't give you the case, Georgey. M'sorry," Eames said, and that time Georgey _did_ look at him, though he desperately wished he hadn't. Something flickered in the man's gaze he'd never seen before — or rather, he _had_ seen it, but never directed at himself. He'd only seen that looked — that pure, unfiltered rage — right before Georgey gave execution orders.

 

But just as quickly as it appeared, the look vanished, and the eerily calm, detached expression settled upon his face once more.

 

Georgey glanced at Trigger and Stephan. "All right, mate. Have it yer way."

 

Before Eames could think or react, the two men rushed forth, seized Arthur, and picked him up. The young man gave a shout of surprise and kicked and jerked around wildly like an animal caught in a snare, but the men moved quickly and dragged him into the bedroom.

 

"Oi!" Eames cried and instantly stood up, but Georgey's huge body was there to stop him, and the man shoved him violently so he fell back onto the couch. He drew a gun from his jacket, cocked it, and aimed it between Eames' eyes.

 

"We're gonna try this again, mate. Where's the case?" he asked, his voice totally devoid of its normal warmth.

 

His heart hammed in his chest as he heard Arthur struggle in the bedroom. Eames nearly stood up reflexively again when he heard the mattress creak, but Georgey pressed the barrel to his brow, and he eased back down.

 

" _Eames_!" Arthur cried from the bedroom, and Eames could practically see what was happening based on the emanating noises. He heard someone, Trigger, unfasten his belt, the buckle clanking loudly, and Arthur spasm fearfully as he kicked out and caught Stephan somewhere — the stomach, judging by his breathy moan. The German swore loudly and Eames jumped again when he heard the man slap Arthur.

 

"I'm gonna fuck you, bitch. I bet yer cunt is so lovely," Trigger said loudly, so Eames would hear him. 

 

Arthur cried out again and continued to struggle — muffled thuds and a string of profanity cluing him in to the fact that Arthur was being a handful for the two henchman, but it was clear that he struggled in vain against the inevitable. Georgey was going to either shoot Eames in the head or hold him hostage as the men raped Arthur.  

 

"Eames!" Arthur cried again, and _fuck._ That was it. That was too much.

 

"Stop it! Jesus, _fuck_ , Georgey. Stop this!" Eames shouted, his voice broken and heart practically in his throat when he heard Arthur scream again.

 

"Where's the case?" he asked again, his face perfectly serene like he didn't give two shits Arthur was in the next room struggling for his life.

 

Eames reached out and shoved the gun out of his face because he'd _had_ it with Georgey. "I'll get you the fucking case, man! Call them off!"

 

The man smirked down at him, but he holstered his weapon inside his jacket. "That's enough, boys," he called, and the struggle inside the bedroom instantly stopped, though the sounds of Arthur's heavy breathing and his muffled cries continued. Eames felt his heart seize up when first the men, and then Arthur, appeared in the living room again. He hadn't seen the young man look so miserable and devastated since they'd lived in the camp together and his father routinely beat him.

 

His shirt was torn at the collar, his face flushed and streaked with tears. Arthur angrily wiped at his cheeks and collapsed on the couch, instantly moving to bury himself against Eames' side. He trembled as Eames wrapped at arm around his waist and held him tight. In that moment, he wrote a checklist. First, he would kill Stephan, and then Trigger. Then he'd kill Georgey. Never in his life had been consumed with so much rage — not even at Roger, though he wanted that bastard dead, too. 

 

"Shh…s'all right, pet. I've got you," Eames whispered and kissed Arthur's hair. When he looked up again, he felt sickened by the small smirk resting on Georgey's lips. 

 

"It'll be just fine, doll face."

 

Arthur pulled away from Eames so he could glare at the other man. " _Fuck_ you."

 

Georgey busted out laughing again. "Now, now. Everything will be fine. Yer man here is gonna give me back my property. Ain't that right, Eamesy?" 

 

"Yeah, that's right, but we gotta drive to the safe house first. I hid it by there," Eames said and prayed the lie was convincing.

 

Georgey shrugged his broad shoulders and glanced at the other two men. "Fine by me, mate. Shall we?"

 

"Give me a second with him, will ya?" Eames pleaded. The four of them were on the same page about the next hour, or so, of Eames' life. In their minds, he would take them to the case, deliver it, and then Trigger would take him down to some abandoned ditch and shoot him in the back of the skull. Eames knew things would go slightly differently, but the result would be the same. He was going to die. All he was asking for was a moment of decency from criminals — a chance to say goodbye to Arthur.

 

Georgey smirked again and motioned to the other blokes. "We'll be right outside the door. Don't try to be cute and go out the window, Eamesy." The three men exited the flat and closed the door behind them.

 

Eames quickly parted from Arthur and gripped the sides of his face. 

 

"Listen to me, pengting. We ain't got much time. Dom is waiting fer you down at the cafe. You have to go with him, understand?" Eames spoke rapidly, his gaze flitting over Arthur's shoulder to the door just in case Georgey or one of the men walked back in.

 

Arthur was in shock and stared back at him blankly. "With Dom?"

 

He gave Arthur a little shake without meaning to. Eames just needed him to _understand_ what he was saying — and quickly. " _Pengting_. Listen, baby, please. You go with Dom, all right?"

 

Eames could see the moment the fog cleared a bit and Arthur began to process what he was saying. The young man gripped Eames by the biceps and swallowed thickly when tears welled in his eyes. "What do you mean? But we'll come back for you, right?"

 

"Of course," he lied and shushed Arthur because if he started crying now, he was never going to get out of the flat and Georgey would shoot them both where they sat. Eames gripped his face and kissed him on the brow and then pulled him close to kiss him properly as Arthur practically climbed into his lap and desperately clung to his shoulders. "Okay, that's enough," Eames gasped when they parted — more to himself than to Arthur, and gently relocated the young man on the couch before he stood. "Wait five minutes and then go to the cafe."

 

"Eames.." Arthur choked and he refused to look back at him. He didn't want the last time he saw Arthur to be tragic and ugly. Besides, even though the young man was upset, he had to hold onto an inkling of hope that they'd be reunited later or Eames knew Arthur would come running after him.

 

He closed the flat door behind him and looked at Georgey. "Let's go."

 

***

They took Georgey's car, a black Audi — nothing too flashy, nothing that would attract the cops' attention. Trigger drove, Stephan sat shotgun, and Georgey resided next to Eames in the back — a gun aimed at the younger Brit's liver the entire time. It'd be a nasty place to get shot, Eames thought idly, as they drove along the freeway toward the spot where he'd been instructed to kill Dom, but hadn't. Eames had a habit of breaking orders like that. Davey told him not to talk to Arthur, but he had. Georgey told him to kill Dom and produce the case, but he hadn't. 

 

"I'll ask you one more time, mate. Where's the case?" Georgey asked, but he already sounded resigned, like he knew Eames' answer.

 

Eames shrugged. "Couldn't tell ya, mate. I got a problem with misplacin' things."

 

Stephan chuckled, but immediately tried to mask the sound with a cough and Eames grinned toothily in response — right up until Georgey cracked the butt of the gun across his temple.

 

"Fuck!" Eames cried as everything went dark and pain ratcheted across his face. When he touched his temple, his fingers came back with blood smeared across their tips. "What the _fuck_ , Georgey," he spat.

 

"You think yer smart, don't you?" the man growled and grabbed Eames by the hair to yank his head back. "What do you think is going to happen next, Eamesy, hm? You don't think we'll go back for Arthur after we're done with you?"

 

 _He'll be gone_ , Eames thought, but he kept his mouth shut. The men probably thought Dom really was dead and Eames had simply stolen the PASIV to make some money on the side. There was no way they could know Eames had given Dom enough cash to get him and Arthur out of the country on the next flight out of Heathrow. 

 

"Fuck you," he groaned through clenched teeth.

 

Georgey laughed, but it sounded like a bark from a mad dog. "Nah, bruv. Fuck _you._ "

 

***

When Trigger took the access road from the freeway and navigated the car slowly along the unpaved road, Eames wondered if this is what Dom had felt like when he'd driven him to the water with a bag pulled over the American's face. Eames' heart pounded so loudly he was sure Georgey could hear it, and he thought maybe he'd have a heart attack before they ever reached the canal and no one would have to shoot him at all. He supposed this is how every one of Georgey's victims had felt over the years in their final moments on earth.

 

Not for the first time, he was reminded that they were a bunch of scoundrels and thieves that probably deserved everything that was coming to them. Maybe he was meant to end up as a corpse floating toward the Atlantic. Maybe he never deserved the happy moments of his life. He _certainly_ didn't deserve Arthur. 

 

 _Arthur_.

 

The thought of the young man was almost enough to make him beg, but then the logical part of his brain flickered back to life and reminded him that it was pointless. Georgey wasn't a man who could be swayed by sentimentality or nostalgia. He probably already considered Eames dead — just another inconvenient aspect of the job that needed to be dealt with.

 

While Georgey's mind rushed to the future, sorting out details like raiding Eames' apartment for the case and filling his vacancy in the mob food chain, Eames' brain regressed to his childhood. He remembered standing in a field the first time he saw Arthur. He remembered their first kiss by the creek, and the first time they made love in their old dilapidated flat. He tried to reconstruct Arthur's smile perfectly in his mind because he wanted to hold onto that image before Trigger kicked him into the great beyond.

 

It was because he was engaged in this macabre mental exercise that he thought he hallucinated what happened next. 

 

Something — a _car —_ surged behind them suddenly, and Eames turned to stare out the back window. _Where had they come from_? He realized the car must have gunned it from the freeway in order to catch up with them. But then, they must have been following them _the entire time_. Georgey also looked out the back window and then levelled a glare at Trigger via the rearview mirror.

 

"Not too gifted at searchin' for tails, are ya?"

 

Trigger glowered at him. "Piss off. Why would I even be _lookin'_ fer tails?"

 

It was a good question. Who would be following them? These blokes clearly weren't professionals. They drove a shitty old Volvo not dissimilar to the one Eames owned just to run errands, and the like. Actually, now that he looked closer, he realized it _was_ his car. 

 

That was his last coherent thought before he saw the passenger window open and Arthur practically climb out of it so he could aim a gun — a _gun?_

 

The _pop pop_ came a split second before the side mirror shattered and Eames hit the deck. He threw himself down in his seat and covered his head a second before the rear window shattered. 

 

"Goddamnit!" Georgey cried, aimed his gun out the gaping hole where the back window used to be, and returned fire. He was dimly aware of Georgey shouting instructions at Trigger — of Trigger screaming back at him, and then he heard a deafening blast. The rear tire exploded and they fishtailed while Georgey roared in anger and the entire car flipped. Eames' head cracked against the plastic paneling of the car door and he saw stars before the deafening sound of crunching metal and shattering glass filled his ears. 

 

He was dying. He was sure of it.

 

But then the car stopped rolling and he tentatively opened his eyes. He was momentarily disoriented because the entire car was upside-down — Trigger and Stephan still strapped to their seats — and when he looked closer he saw Stephan's neck was twisted at an unnatural angle. Trigger moaned a second before Georgey shifted beside him, and Eames realized he had to move. He _had_ to get out of there, so he began to crawl through the broken glass through the window and pulled himself out.

 

Rivulets of blood ran down his arms and when he wiped at his face, his palm came back red. He was cut all over from the glass, but he was _alive._ Eames collapsed in the grass and only just barely managed to pick up his head when he heard more gun fire. Arthur stalked toward the car like a tiny force of nature and bent down to shoot someone — probably Trigger. When he stood up, Arthur looked at him, frowned, and bent down to look into the car again. He was talking to someone — it had to be Georgey. 

 

Then there was another _pop_ and everything was quiet.

 

Eames fell against the grass and closed his eyes. He just needed to rest. Just for a second.

 

***

When he opened his eyes again, he was in a white room and a man with a clipboard was looking at him.

 

"Mr. Charles?" the stranger asked, and he was looking at Eames, but he couldn't make sense of why a man with a clipboard would think his name was Mr. Charles. His brain came online a moment later.

 

"Um…yeah," he rasped. Eames looked down and saw his arms were wrapped in gauze and his head felt constrained, so he assumed they'd wrapped up his skull as well. His lower lip moved stiffly and when he touched it, he felt a large scab.

 

"You were in a car accident and a good samaritan brought you in. We found your ID in your pocket."

 

 _ID?_ Eames stared back at the man silently.

 

"You're very lucky," the doctor — Eames could see the scrubs now — commented. "The man who brought you in asked that I give you this when you woke up," he added and handed Eames a folded bit of paper.

 

When Eames looked from the paper to his face, the doctor help up his hands. "I didn't read it. None of my business," and then he left. Eames stared after him for a while and then unfolded the paper — the note, as it turned out.

 

_Eames—_

 

_Sorry Arthur and I landed you in the hospital. That wasn't part of the plan. Not that we had a plan, mind you. We just couldn't leave you behind. We're sure George's friends will be after us, so I plan to follow your advice and leave with Arthur ASAP. Use the Mr. Charles ID and passport (I hid it under the loose floorboard in the apartment where you keep your marijuana) to get our of the country. We'll be in touch soon._

 

_DC_

 

Eames grinned down at the note.

 

"Pengting," he hummed aloud. It didn't take a sharp analytical mind to sort out who the mastermind was behind his liberation. Dom might have been the driver, but it was his fierce little Arthur leaning out of the car and shooting like a madman. 

 

Turns out, Georgey's shooting range lessons had paid off.

 

***

Dom was right about Georgey's associates being on the lookout for Eames. When he was released from the hospital and returned to the flat, he surveyed the building cautiously from the outside, and only just missed a nasty-looking group of brutes exiting his building. When they were gone, Eames quickly ran into his place, packed a duffle bag, pocketed a wad of cash, fetched the passport Dom had hidden for him, and caught a taxi to Heathrow.

 

Stupidly, he assumed he'd return, one day, to their little flat. Of course, that turned out not to be the case. In retrospect, Eames wished he'd grabbed something — some kind of keepsake — for Arthur. Maybe the framed illustration of Paris's Eiffel Tower he loved so much.

 

Every step of the way through the airport, Eames assumed he was done for. He waited for a mate of Georgey's to run up behind him and shoot him in the middle of a crowd, or for security to flag him for some arbitrary reason — maybe that he looked inordinately rough from having narrowly escaped a car collision with his life. But none of that happened. He'd bought a ticket to Africa — Kenya, specifically because it was the only place he couldn't imagine the mob following him to, and he wanted to live in a place where he could clearly distinguish between friend and foe.

 

Mostly, he thought of Arthur, and wondered when he'd see him again. _Soon_ , Dom had said, but how? Surely, they'd ditched their cellphones as Eames had back at the flat. How would Arthur find him?

 

It was with that despairing thought in his heart that Eames left London and the UK. 

 

He wouldn't return for over a decade.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life without Arthur is hard.

To his great surprise, the world kept turning without Arthur in his life. Eames set down his roots in Mombasa, the second largest city in Kenya, where there were plenty of criminals and shady types to camouflage the arrival of a bruised and broken Englishman. For two entire years, every day was a struggle for survival. He practically lost his shirt playing the alleyway dice games favored by the region's children — until he smartened up and learned some strategy, and also how to cheat with loaded dice. Then, he started winning, but by then he was also too old to play with the sprogs, and so he started cheating at the local casinos instead.

 

The year he started sitting at the tables, life improved for Eames. Yes, he had to constantly look over his shoulder to make sure he hadn't acted too boldly on a given day and earned the suspicion of house management, but he also cheated enough to buy a flat and enough amenities to make the place feel homey. He stropped dressing like a chav and bought garments that suited his idea of elegance — sort of a former MI-5, ex-pat type — a man of mystery everyone would be simultaneously drawn to and too in awe of to ever approach. He wanted to be the bloke everyone was instinctively pleased to see, but no one could ever seem to remember his name. Eames would be there one minute, the glowing center of the universe, and then gone the next — like smoke.

 

He used his posh accent until it became second nature and he forgot how he used to speak, combed his hair and parted it to the side so he looked older, and played the role of slick double agent like in the Bond movies he used to watch on the telly at Davey's. 

 

Through it all, Eames ignored the ache in his chest whenever he thought of Arthur, or Georgey — the only real family he'd ever known. And yes, Georgey had been a right wanker at the end and betrayed them, but Eames' heart was a stubborn creature that didn't stop loving someone over minor trivialities like attempted rape and murder. He blamed the circumstances, not Georgey, per se. Different time, different place, and he and Georgey would still be mates, probably enjoying a couple beers on his old London flat's balcony right at that very minute.

 

He thought about Georgey a lot, but he couldn't bear to think of Arthur. This proved difficult the first couple of years, and so in between visits to the casino, Eames got spectacularly smashed on cheap alcohol so the vast majority of his days passed in a blur. Eventually, he had to stop this when he could feel his liver shout its objections, but after a week of clean living, he returned to boozing hard and partaking in Mombasa's opium dens.

 

It was in one of these places that he heard an elderly man discussing what the other druggies probably assumed was a tall tale of dreamsharing, but Eames instantly recognized it as true. When the frail man fetched his cane and left the den in the early hours of the morning, Eames followed him and cornered him in a nearby alleyway. Squaring his shoulders and fixing his crazy eyes on the poor, quaking sod, Eames did his best thug routine until the man coughed up the details: there was a PASIV in Mombasa, in the hands of some bloke named Yusuf, who was also a chemist capable of making Somnacin.

 

Eames couldn't believe his luck. He had no idea how many PASIVs existed in the world, but he imagined they were few and far between, and yet he'd located one right in his backyard.

 

That same day, he located the chemist's shop. Walking the aisles, Eames eyed the wall of jars filled with colorful liquids and various dead creatures until he heard someone clear their throat. When he looked up, he saw a young man standing behind the counter.

 

"Can I help you?" he asked, a hand idly scratching behind the ears of a cat sprawled across the counter.

 

"Ah, yes. I hope so," Eames answered, his best, most charming smile already on his lips. "You're Yusuf?"

 

"I am."

 

"I've heard a rumor that you might be in possession of a very rare acquisition that I am interested in purchasing," he continued as he sauntered forward until his hands were braced against the edge of the desk. 

 

The other man eyed him suspiciously. "Is that so?"

 

"Mm..yes," Eames hummed, still smiling politely, but allowing a dangerous little gleam to reflect in his eyes. "You have a PASIV."

 

Yusuf's eyes widened and he glanced to a door to his right where a heavy curtain was drawn across the entryway, as if he feared eavesdroppers might be located directly on the other side. "How the bloody hell did you hear about that?" he growled, his voice pitched low. The cat, sensing danger was afoot, hopped off the counter. 

 

Eames shrugged casually. "A little birdie told me. Regardless, I'm interested in purchasing this item."

 

Yusuf burst out laughing and Eames couldn't help the annoyed scowl that crossed his face. He hated when people didn't take him seriously, but he generally tried not to let that show. "Oi, I'm serious here."

 

"Mate, believe me. You can't afford a PASIV. Do you have any idea how rare they are?" Yusuf asked, a genuine smile spreading across his face that put Eames a little at ease.

 

"Um, not as such. No," he admitted before he sighed and braced himself against the counter. Nothing in his life could be bloody easy. "Look, to be frank…I haven't dreamed in years and I'm a bit rusty. I thought, maybe if you had a PASIV—"

 

"Oh! Well, why didn't you say so?" Yusuf interrupted and practically crowed in delight as he circled out from behind the counter and moved to throw open the curtain to his side. "Come on, this way," and then he disappeared. Eames quickly followed him down a staircase that led to a basement.

 

Eames froze in his tracks when he saw around two dozen people hooked up to what looked like IVs, sprawled out on cots lining the room's walls. They were all asleep, but he didn't see a PASIV anywhere.

 

"Come along, come along. This room is not for you," Yusuf called over his shoulder as he walked toward another door partitioned by a curtain. Eames followed, and when Yusuf threw aside the fabric, he revealed a smaller room with a handful of cots and a familiar metal briefcase resting in the middle of the room. 

 

Instinctively, Eames smiled.

 

He missed the beginning of what Yusuf was saying to him as he set up the PASIV because he was so enamoured by the sight of it. A thousand memories came rushing back to him — Dom, standing in the middle of that bloody field — Arthur, rushing about in a manic frenzy, changing the very earth beneath their feet.

 

"—wouldn't ordinarily show you this, but we dreamers are a rare bunch and I haven't been under myself in ages, so…ready?" Yusuf asked from his position laid out across a cot, the line already in his arm as he looked at Eames expectantly.

 

Eames glanced over his shoulder to the larger room. "Um…is it safe?"

 

"Oh, they'll be under for ages," Yusuf dismissed casually, waving his non-tethered hand through the air.

 

Nodding, Eames laid down on one of the free cots and rolled up his sleeve. He accepted a line from Yusuf and inserted the needle into his vein.

 

Then he reclined and closed his eyes.

 

***

"You know, I could shoot myself out of this dream and steal your little PASIV," Eames pointed out as they walked through Yusuf's recreation of London.

 

The other man didn't look the least bit nervous as he nodded and thoughtfully examined his version of Piccadilly Circus. "I suppose you could," he furrowed his brow, annoyed. "Why doesn't this look right?"

 

Eames glanced over at the busy circle. "More ads, mate."

 

Yusuf nodded and threw up a few more eyesores. That was closer. "I don't think you will, though. Steal it. You don't strike me as the type."

 

Eames burst out laughing at that comment — the sound dry and bitter. "I'm a thief, mate."

 

"That's not what I mean," Yusuf responded and added another cluster of projections by the statue of the Greek god Anteros.  Eames paused to watch him work and frowned, impressed by the man's ability to build a complex city like London so rapidly.

 

"You're good," he admitted. "When we used to build, all we could pull off was a field — maybe a few changes, before everything collapsed, but then my mate realized we were focusing on little details too much—"

 

"–Right, and you have to focus on the big stuff. I was taught the same thing. That's how I learned to build cityscapes," Yusuf said as he tweaked the Shaftesbury memorial fountain, stretching the wings wider and tilting them upward slightly. "I don't have to get every line and crevice perfect, but it's important to get the gist right."

 

Turning to look at Yusuf, he continued to frown. Eames didn't believe in fate, so the accumulating coincidences were beginning to make him feel uneasy. First, he miraculously found a PASIV in his neighborhood, and now he'd met a man who had received virtually identical training.

 

"Who taught you that?" he asked.

 

Yusuf peppered tube signs around their perimeter. "Some Yank named Arthur."

 

Eames shot them out of the dream so fast that Yusuf was still laid out on the cot, gasping at the ceiling when Eames fell out of his bed, scrambled over to him and grabbed him by the collar.

 

"How do you know Arthur?" he barked, shaking the man violently. Stunned, Yusuf stared at him wide-eyed in a mixture of terror and utter confusion. 

 

"I…what?" he asked, his brain still cloudy from the Somnacin and having been blasted out of his cozy dream unceremoniously. 

 

"Arthur!" Eames shouted and he shook the man again. When that didn't produce an answer, he slapped him across the face. "How do you know Arthur?" He felt frantic — maybe a little insane, but this was his first connection to Arthur in _years_ , and he didn't want it to slip away.

 

"Oi! Piss off. Let _go_ of me," Yusuf cried indignantly, shoving Eames away so he could yank the line from his arm and sit up. "Calm down!" he ordered.

 

Eames obeyed and remained kneeling in the middle of the room, breathing heavily, probably looking like he was out of his mind.

 

"Jesus Christ," Yusuf gasped, smoothing out his curls. "Look, mate. I don't really _know Arthur,_ all right? I know Dominic Cobb. I provide him the Somnacin he uses. I've met Arthur a few times, and he gave me a couple lessons."

 

The other man spoke so casually of the miraculous existence of Dom and Arthur that it made him angry. They should have joined hands and danced in circles, celebrating the fact that the men had escaped London — were _alive_ , and not only that, but by the sounds of it, _flourishing_. 

 

"If you're interested in lessons, though, I'd recommend Mrs. Cobb. She's a better teacher. Arthur doesn't really have the temperament for it," Yusuf added.

 

Eames surged forward again and grabbed him by the front of his shirt. "Listen to me," he growled. "You will get a message to Arthur for me, or I will come back here tonight and burn this place to the ground."

 

Even though he was technically at a height advantage from his position on the bed with Eames kneeling before him, there was terror in Yusuf's eyes when he answered: "I…can try to contact Dom to pass along the message. That's all I can promise."

 

Eames released him and fell back on his heels. Smoothing out his hair and breathing heavily, he heard his voice murmur, "Good…good." 

 

For the first time in three years, the ache in his chest diminished slightly.

 

***

Eames scribbled a note and handed it to Yusuf, who read it, and to his great credit, didn't comment on the brief message.

 

_Pengting-_

 

_Contact me when you can. Yusuf knows the way._

 

_E_

 

He promised to send along the note and Eames left the dream den for the night.

 

They continued to dream together after that, and Eames learned to build cityscapes and intricate monuments. On their third time dreaming together, Eames shifted into the shape of a young urchin boy and Yusuf nearly had a heart attack on the spot. Apparently, he'd never before met a forger — what Eames had taken to calling his trade. 

 

"It's brilliant! Bloody brilliant!" Yusuf crowed for what seemed like hours, and Eames couldn't help but grin and feel a little proud at the response.

 

However, those moments dreaming were the only high points of Eames' dreadful life. It had been months since Yusuf sent along the message, and yet Arthur never attempted to contact him. His heart seized in his chest whenever his cell phone rang or someone knocked on his door, but it was always Yusuf — goddamn Yusuf — wanting to hang out or go dreaming again. The other man was his only friend, and truthfully, had it not been for his constant warm presence, he probably would have found the highest tower in the city and jumped a long time ago.

 

"You mustn't be morbid," Yusuf instructed one time when they were under together, pretending they were snipers for MI-5, situated in an eagle's nest in a London tower that didn't exist, except for in the mind of the chemist. "We're British, remember. Stiff upper lip and all that."

 

Eames stared out at the city — the place that had been his home with Arthur. "Do you ever miss it?"

 

"Fuck no," Yusuf laughed. "Terrible place. Always raining. I love Africa. We can be scoundrels and no one cares," he said and shot an unsuspecting projection in the temple.

 

***

Six months later, Eames started visiting the casinos again. Yusuf wasn't simply allowing him to use his den and PASIV out of the goodness of his heart — he charged a few hundred dollars per session, so Eames eventually found himself broke and in need of some quick income. 

 

He was sitting in on a poker game, building a nice little pile of chips, when he looked up and saw Arthur standing by the other side of the table. 

 

Time seemed to stop. Eames completely forgot about the game — about his chips — about everything except Arthur, _Arthur_ , standing right there, just out of arm's reach. He looked lovely, dressed in a dark suit, his normally unruly waves combed off his face. He was so preoccupied with cataloguing his every feature that Eames didn't respond immediately when the young man turned and walked away.

 

He snapped out of his daze finally, abandoned his chips at the table (much to the confused distress of the dealer), and took off after him.

 

"Arthur!" he shouted as he made his way through the crowded floor, just barely managing to keep his gaze on the familiar shape of his back. But the other man was quick, and Eames only just managed to grab his arm before he'd nearly slipped out an exit. "Bloody hell, _wait,_ will you? Where are you going?" he growled, annoyed that Arthur hadn't contacted him in _years_ , and now he was running away.

 

"Let go of me," Arthur groaned, and when Eames managed to turn him around, he saw tears in his eyes. He couldn't for the life of him understand why Arthur would be crying. They should have been hugging, kissing, and ideally shagging each other silly. But not crying. "I don't know you," Arthur whispered, looking miserable as he stared at the casino's carpet.

 

"What the hell are you on about? You've known me for years," Eames said, barely managing to keep his volume in check as he gripped Arthur's arm.

 

Arthur cringed before he glared up at him. "I don't know you," he muttered again and Eames felt like he was going insane. Was this a dream? Had something happened to Arthur's memory? Maybe he'd gone under one too many times and dreaming had somehow erased Eames from his memory.

 

But no — Arthur wasn't acting like he was meeting a stranger. He was acting like he was scared of Eames, but why? He was the same—

 

Suddenly, things clicked into place. _Of course_. He _wasn't_ the same, and that's what was frightening Arthur. He'd arrived in Mombasa, expecting to find his chav boyfriend, and instead he found Eames as he was today — a posh-sounding paisley-wearer, who might have bore a slight resemblance to the old Eames, but he could understand why the change unnerved the young man. Arthur looked different as well, but in a way that made Eames want to take him home and undress him. He couldn't help feel a little disappointed that his own metamorphosis, rather than inspiring lust, had apparently frightened poor Arthur.

 

He pulled him into an alcove by the exit and pinned him against the wall. When Arthur struggled, Eames used the full bulk of his weight to keep him in place and held his arms against his sides.

 

"You know me," he whispered against his ear, taking a selfish moment to breathe in his scent and let a thousand memories wash over him. "You know me, pengting," he growled, allowing his fancy accent to slip away and the guttural vowels to shape his mouth.

 

Arthur's eyes slipped shut and he shivered a little as Eames pressed against him. "Let's go back to your place," he whispered hoarsely, turning a bit so he could nose at Eames' jaw.

 

He really didn't need to be asked twice. Eames grabbed him by the hand and they fled the casino like it was on fire.

 

***

Things back at his flat were not the fireworks show he'd been hoping for. Upon entering his home, Arthur looked around for a while at his books and various trinkets, while Eames stood around like an idiot and watched him. To preoccupy himself, Eames took off his suit jacket and unbuttoned his shirt at the collar. He didn't have air-conditioning and ceiling fans could only bring so much relief. Eventually, Arthur turned to face him.

 

"You look different," he said quietly, unsure of himself as he folded his arms awkwardly across his chest. A defensive position, Eames noted.

 

"M'still me, pengting," Eames responded softly, feeling as though he should apologize and he wasn't quite sure why.

 

"I'm sorry I didn't come earlier. Mal…things got complicated."

 

"Who's Mal?" Eames asked, hating that Arthur had a new life and hating that they weren't already in his bed, rolling around and doing filthy things to each other.

 

"Dom's wife— well, fiance, when you heard about her. Remember? Um…she's pregnant, actually," Arthur said, smiling because that was probably great news they'd drank champagne over in Arthur's new, shiny, better life, but Eames couldn't really be bothered to care about the bit of good news. When he failed to beam from sheer joy, Arthur stopped smiling, and then he felt like an asshole for being a storm cloud in the young man's otherwise sunny existence.

 

It felt like there were oceans of time between them and suddenly the ache in his chest returned with a vengeance. Things were supposed to be perfect now that he had Arthur again, but they weren't, primarily because he didn't _have_ Arthur. He wondered if he'd ever have him again, or if they would start a new chapter as polite acquaintances. The very thought of that made him want to curl up somewhere dark and quiet.

 

"How've you been?" Arthur asked weakly, already braced for a depressing answer because, right, Eames was just his pathetic ex-boyfriend he had to deal with before he could move on and become a successful entrepreneurial dreamer — just some clippings to be swept up and dealt with to keep Arthur's life neat and organized.

 

"Fucking terrible, actually," Eames admitted, his laugh bitter. "Any family I've ever had is gone, or dead, and you've moved on, I see," and _fuck_ , it wasn't supposed to be happening this way. That last thing he wanted to do in the world was fight with Arthur. He hated that he felt jealous of Arthur, and Dom, for being happy and successful while he'd been pining for Arthur _for years_.

 

Any time he'd summoned the nerve to chat up a pretty young thing — usually when he was on his way to shit-faced — he'd lost his courage at the last second. He'd jerked off to memories of Arthur a thousand times, and why? What had been the point? What had he been waiting for? Some grand, romantic reunion that wasn't meant to be. "I'm a bloody idiot," he laughed mirthlessly and shook his head, stunned by his own stupidity. Arthur was young and beautiful. There was no reason for him to look behind into his past for answers. "I'm sure you're up to your eyeballs in suitors, hm?" 

 

He couldn't bear to look at Arthur for another second so he walked to the door and fiddled with the lock. When it was open, he turned the knob, but just then Arthur appeared at his side and slammed the door shut again. "Eames," he whispered before he leaned forward and kissed him. He froze for a moment until his body kicked into gear and his arms reflexively wrapped around Arthur's slim waist and held him tightly as he spread his lips with his tongue and returned the embrace properly. When Arthur moaned brokenly, he lifted him off the floor and was only dimply aware of the young man wrapping his legs around him as he stumbled toward the bedroom.

 

Eames dropped him onto the mattress and then climbed atop Arthur, kissing and biting at his mouth until he realized the other man was speaking to him.

 

"I don't dream anymore," Arthur whispered, sounding sad and a little afraid. They still didn't know why that happened — maybe it was like building up a tolerance to alcohol or drugs. Maybe it was brain damage. Maybe in ten years time, they'd find out Somnacin causes brain cancer and they were all heading for early graves.

 

"Me either," he breathed and leaned down to kiss along his neck. Arthur squirmed beneath him and ran fingers through Eames' hair, gently working it loose from the pomade's grip. 

 

"Sometimes, I can't tell when I'm awake," Arthur confessed softly, and that made Eames pause. He leaned back to look at the young man's face and saw the fear in his eyes. This visit wasn't just about their reunion, but Arthur had _needed_ to see him because he was losing his grip on reality. Eames could see the barely restrained terror in his eyes, and instantly understood the source of it. Losing the distinction between reality and dreams was dangerous, especially if the temptation to shoot one's self from a dream crept to the forefront of one's mind.

 

"Then you just need to remember you're awake," he encouraged lightly, hoping with childlike naivete that things could be that simple.

 

Arthur sighed, frustrated, having clearly thought of that. "How?"

 

"Well…if I'm around, then you're awake."

 

Arthur rolled his eyes. "I have a projection of you, you know. He's filthy."

 

Eames grinned and rocked gently atop Arthur, letting him feel his half-hard cock grind against his hips. "Yeah?"

 

Moaning softly, Arthur leaned up to kiss him, but reclined back against the bed afterwards. "Yeah…Eames, I need your help," he added, more seriously this time. The shift in tone sobered Eames. He nodded, swallowed thickly, and stared at the wall for a moment.

 

"Right, so…you need something to signal you're aware or asleep. Like…" he glanced around the room, his gaze landing on a side table. Eames reached over and plucked a red die from the surface and dropped it in Arthur's hand. "This."

 

Arthur eyed him skeptically. "I can dream up dice, Eames."

 

The forger shook his head sombrely. "Numbers go wonky in dreams, pengting. Letters too. Haven't you noticed when you try to read a sign or phone number, the digits look strange?" 

 

Arthur paused and looked at the die, rolling it in his hand slowly. He nodded a little in response to the question.

 

"Right, so that's a loaded die and it will always land on six in reality, but in a dream, it'll go wonky and land all different ways."

 

"But...you know that, so you could use it again me," Arthur, the little minx, teased and wiggled a little beneath him in a way that used to — and still did — drive Eames  _crazy_.

 

"I'll never use it again you," he groaned, and leaned down to kiss his collarbone. 

 

"I know," he whispered, and went quiet — thoughtful — until Eames leaned back to look at his face and saw Arthur eyeing the die. "A totem," he remarked softly and Eames shrugged.

 

"Sure, whatever you want to call it," and then he dipped back down to resume necking with Arthur, but the young man leaned back again, and this time the forger groaned audibly. He hadn't had sex _in years_ and now Arthur wanted to talk about work. Maybe he was dreaming too. Maybe this was all part of some cruel dream Yusuf had concoted to punish him for being too handsome and charming.

 

"Dom and I have been trying to figure out a solution for this for ages, and you did in two seconds," Arthur said, smiling up at him, dimples and all. 

 

"I don't want to talk about Dom," he growled and kissed him. Arthur allowed it, and it was lovely for a while as they competed for dominancy, rolling around on the bed, and writhing against each other. Eames had just managed to free Arthur's torso of his ridiculously expensive shirt with the maddeningly tiny buttons when the young man pulled back again. He was breathless and a little flushed in the face as he spoke.

 

"You..should get one too. A totem," he panted.

 

"I got one," Eames answered and fished the poker chip from his pock to show him. When Arthur looked surprised, Eames grinned sheepishly. "I thought about it already. I nearly shot Yusuf when we woke up one time, so after that…I started carrying this."

 

Arthur looked amused. "How did you meet Yusuf?"

 

Instead of responding — and letting, God forbid, Yusuf cockblock him — Eames kissed him again. When he unbuttoned Arthur's slacks and slid them down his narrow hips, Eames paused and gazed down to where the tattoo of his name was still etched across Arthur's pale flesh. The self-hating part of his brain had braced to see the young man had lasered off the tattoo or covered it up. But there it remained — just as it had been the day Arthur shyly revealed it on his birthday.

 

Eames cursed himself when he froze and stared at the ink, like a total knob. He was horrified when his throat tightened and his eyes began to burn. Here he finally had Arthur in his bed, and he was about to cry like an idiot. When he dared to look at Arthur's face, he saw him staring back, his dark eyes almost black.

 

"It's always just been you," he whispered, his cheeks red from more than just desire. Eames' sluggish brain eventually recognized the comment for what it was — a confession. Arthur hadn't been with anyone else, and these past few years had been hell for him too. 

 

He yanked the trousers from Arthur's legs and kissed his thighs adoringly before he yanked open the fly of his pleated slacks. The goal had been to get Arthur naked, but he couldn't stand to wait another minute to fuck him, so Eames was still mostly clothed when he reached over to the nightstand and opened the draw to fetch the lube. Arthur apparently wasn't happy with the clothing arrangement because he was unbuttoning Eames' shirt and mouthing at his chest when he looked up and saw what was happening.

 

"Why do you have that?" he asked, suspicious and a little angry. 

 

Eames grinned crookedly and waved the tube in the air. "Fer jerkin' off, pengting," and when Arthur looked a little hesitant to buy that excuse, Eames kissed along his stomach and licked a low, wet stripe up the bottom of his cock. The young man gasped and arched from the bed in response. "I swear it. I swear it on my mum's grave, love," and Arthur moaned, having clearly forgiven all his sins and trespasses. 

 

When his fingers were slick with lube, Eames fingered Arthur slowly and pet the inside of his thigh encouragingly. "Go easy," Arthur moaned, shifting a bit on the mattress and quietly uttering, "Been a long time."

 

Eames fucked him slowly into the mattress, drawing the sweetest moans from Arthur's pink mouth, which he covered it with his own — breathless and unable to kiss him, but needing to feel connected with Arthur at every possible point. He covered Arthur's body entirely, pinning his arms above his head as he snapped his hips forward and made the younger man cry out. Everything was _perfect_ and bloody glorious again, and the pain inside Eames' chest vanished.

 

"I love you," he moaned after the final stroke of his hips, when he was buried inside Arthur and coming for ages. He might have kept moaning those words pathetically into the crook of Arthur's neck, but the other man didn't seem to mind after he'd eased his calves off Eames' shoulders and wrapped his arms around him instead. Arthur tenderly stroked his back and kissed him on the shoulder when he whispered:

 

"I know you miss Georgey. But he didn't care about you, Eames. Not like I do. They don't love you like I love you."

 

***

"There's a job. It's going to be difficult," Arthur said after Eames had thrown open the bedroom window and returned to curl up on the bed and smoke a cigarette. When Eames looked at him expectantly, Arthur continued:

 

"The client is half of a business partnership. One partner wants to leave the company, the other, our client, wants him to stay. We have to plant the idea that he wants to stay in his mind."

 

"Inception, you mean," Eames said and ashed into the tray beside his bed. It was already overflowing with cigarettes butts, and not for the first time, he reminded himself that he really should quit. 

 

Arthur nodded. "I have my reservations, but Dom seems to think it's possible, but that's another thing…" he said as he shifted on the bed, moving to brace himself on his elbow so he could get a better look at Eames. "I don't want Dom to join us on this one. I was approached with the offer on my own, so he can't know about it. He has to…Mal needs him right now," Arthur concluded vaguely, and Eames was left with the distinct impression that he was only telling him the half-truth. He'd let it slide, for now.

 

"Interesting," Eames admitted and took a drag from his cigarette. He exhaled and watched the smoke dissipate as it approached the ceiling fan. "Why are you willing to take a job you don't believe is possible?"

 

The other man grinned a little and lifted a bare shoulder in a lazy shrug. "Everything is possible, right? In dreams?"

 

Eames grinned and ran his fingers over Arthur's cheek with his free hand. "Too right, pengting."


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first time they tried inception.

The job was in Minnesota, of all places, _in the middle of winter_ , so Eames was cranky from the start. The only perk of the time, date, location was that he got to see Arthur traipse about in his pretty tailored layers. He'd certainly come a long way from the battered, quaking lad Eames met in the middle of a field. Arthur wasn't a boy anymore. He was a man — and not just _any_ man. He was apparently the best point man in all of dreamsharing — Dom's righthand man, who inspired respect and fear in his colleagues.

 

People spoke the name _Arthur_ reverently, which was appropriate in Eames' opinion. They circulated rumors of the man. _I saw him take on an entire army of projections armed with only a butter knife_ , their chemist, Hannah, said to him as they stood together and pretended to read Arthur's team itinerary for the week, which he'd already typed up and printed for them. The point man had divided every minute of the working day into neat, bullet-pointed goals. Eames blinked at the page and looked across the room to Arthur, who was busy scowling at some paper work. He decided right then and there that his pengting had _not_ been having enough sex.

 

"Is that so?" he purred noncommittally.

 

Hannah nodded gravely. She was a sweet girl. Sweet and professional, the daughter of Chinese immigrants, born and raised right there in Minnesota, and it had been Hannah who originally heard of the job and phoned Arthur. 

 

"A _butter knife_ ," she whispered and followed his gaze to Arthur.

 

Eames wanted to smile, grip her gently by the shoulder and say, _you've nothing to fear from him. He used to wank to Wolverine_. But, of course, he didn't. He _couldn't_ — not just out of a sense of loyalty to Arthur, but also…where would he begin? How could he ever hope to describe his relationship to Arthur? It was better to keep these things to himself — tucked away in the most inner crevice of his heart where it could remain his and his alone.

 

Their architect, Nils, was a mountain of a man — blond, blue-eyed, exactly the kind of product you'd expect having been birthed by Germans. Nils and Arthur had already worked together once before, so he was used to the point man's finicky ways. 

 

"This is nothing," the German replied in his thick accent. "Wait until he makes us coordinate watches."

 

Eames smirked, thinking the man had made a funny little joke, until Arthur gathered them for their first team meeting and _actually made them do it._ Nils pointedly glanced over at him and Eames mouthed _oh my God_ in return — but only when Arthur's back was turned to them, of course. 

 

He too was starting to fear the point man a little bit.

 

As Arthur indicated before, the job involved two men, business partners: Jacob Weinreich and Paul Bagrov. The men had been friends since childhood, mates through their adolescence, and founded a hugely successful construction company together that had gone on to build half of Russia. But now, Paul wanted to leave because he'd made some on-the-side connections in Russia and was determined to form his own company in his native land. Jacob saw his partner's intentions as the ultimate betrayal, since Paul's departure would surely dismay the company's shareholders and cause their stock value to plummet. _Global Construction_ _Services_ would be ruined.

 

Jacob had asked them to plant an idea in Paul's mind: leaving was the wrong move. Paul should stay at GCS.

 

The job seemed easy enough until they got down to the gritty details. It was then that Eames realized how complicated planting an _idea_ in someone's brain could actually be. Ideas were abstract notions — left up to the whims of the subject to interpret and determine the parameters. 

 

"Let's say we plant this idea: _don't leave_ ," Eames said as he rolled his totem between his fingers and gazed down at Arthur's outline. "What does that really mean? Don't leave _what_? It could mean GCS, or Jacob's life, or Jacob's bloody house," he said, grinning when the comment made Hannah guffaw in amusement.

 

Arthur didn't looked amused as he stood before the wipe board, his arms folded. "Okay, so, the idea is don't leave _GCS_."

 

"But _why_?" Eames needled and grinned when Arthur offered him a particularly icy glare. The man's hostility had been doing curious things to libido lately. Uncrossing his legs and setting aside the outline, Eames rose and approached Arthur. The point man unfolded his arms and carefully kept them at his sides as Eames approached, lifting his chin minutely at the last moment so he could steel himself and stare cooly into the man's eyes when Eames finally stood before him.

 

For a split second, Eames saw a flash of fear in Arthur's eyes — as if the point man thought he'd do something mad like kiss him in front of the team. Eames finally broke their locked gazes when he reached down and plucked the wipe board marker from Arthur's hand and moved to cross out the words "don't leave." Beside them, he wrote, "loyalty."

 

"You'll do better with a positive idea," he said, looking first to Arthur and then the rest of their team. "'Don't leave' sounds like a command — like a prison. But _loyalty_ is a positive concept. Everyone wants to be loyal. Paul will have to interpret loyalty in his own way, but surely his relationship with his oldest and dearest mate will pop into his head. He'll stay at GCS," Eames concluded, handed the marker back to a stunned Arthur, and returned to his chair.

 

"Brilliant," Nils said approvingly, nodding at Eames. "But how do we plant the idea of loyalty?"

 

Arthur uncapped and capped the marker idly — the sharp _pop_ filling the room before he spoke. "If we stick with the friendship theme, we could plant a photo — something from their childhood with the two of them together."

 

Eames hummed thoughtfully and swivelled his chair back and forth as he mulled over the idea. "That could work. Feelings of nostalgia could generate the notion of loyalty, which he'd then connect to his departure from GCS, but only if  A causes B causes C. We'll be fudging a lot of this because we simply don't know how the man thinks."

 

"That's a lot of unknown variables," Hannah said disapprovingly and looked at Arthur.

 

The point man nodded seriously in response. "True, but we'll have to roll with the punches." Arthur turned to look at the board where they'd mapped out possible dream scenarios. From where he was seated, Eames could see scowl lines forming on the man's brow. "The problem is, we'd need to plant this idea deep in Paul's subconscious."

 

"Two layers is deep," Hannah said as she scribbled in her notebook.

 

Arthur sighed as he uncapped the marker and began writing on the board. "I hope it's deep enough."

 

 

***

They were staying in a medium-awful hotel by the highway, which initially surprised Eames because ordinarily Arthur had better taste than that — until the point man explained they wouldn't attract attention at a seedy place like a Super 8. Then Eames decided to hate him for placing practicality ahead of life's little pleasantries like a functioning television and a mattress that wouldn't leave his back feeling sore and knotted in the morning.

 

It was because he was feeling moody that he decided to be a total bastard when Arthur stopped by his room to give him the rundown about tomorrow's meeting.

 

Eames leaned against the doorframe and tugged at his bathrobe so the chest area opened suggestively. When Arthur stared at him, Eames raised his brows and smiled innocently. "Like what you see, pet?" he asked in his lowest register.

 

He didn't really have a clear game plan, but what he certainly didn't expect was Arthur to shove him into the room, slam the door, and turn on him with rage in his eyes. Eames was left breathless for a moment, having never seen the man looked quite so furious.

 

"What the _fuck_ is your problem?" Arthur spat.

 

Eames stared at him, stunned and silent for a moment until he closed his robe a bit, feeling rather exposed given the circumstances. "I could ask you the same thing," he responded, mentally patting himself on the back for formulating an answer at all.

 

"I'm being professional," the point man hissed, lowering his voice as if he worried the neighbors might hear them through the wall. "Do you have any idea how long it took me to carve a reputation for myself?"

 

Eames looked at the man. He'd clearly just showered after a long day at work because his hair was no longer held in place by half a can of pomade. Instead, curls hung gently against his cheek on the one side, and on the other, remained tucked behind an ear. Arthur was in his mid-twenties, but he looked all of eighteen. He had one of those faces that would probably make him look that way until he was in his thirties. Eames could only imagine the dismissive response from experienced dreamsharers when Dom paraded out his savant point man — a child, really, at least from the looks of him. 

 

Arthur had probably had to claw his way up the food chain to be taken seriously.

 

Suddenly, Eames felt like a wanker, but beneath his guilt simmered old feelings of jealousy. Arthur had been his before any of the dreamsharing business. Why did he have to pretend to be a polite colleague now? He felt intimidated and cornered by Arthur's wrath, and so, as was his nature, he lashed out. "I'm not going to hang around so you can stop by for a fuck _when you feel like it_ , Arthur," he growled, feeling his face grow warm and knowing with absolute certainty that he was two seconds from shouting or doing something wild.

 

"All I'm asking is that you grow up!" the point man shouted, which really rattled him because his Arthur never yelled — not once, never in real anger. Furthermore, he'd never seen Arthur be anything but cool and collected with the other team members, which meant he'd saved this special dose of fury just for Eames.

 

Eames realized he was breathing heavily when the sound filled the room. He didn't know what to say. He'd told himself it had just been a bit of harmless flirting at work — standing too close to Arthur, lingering touches, double entendres. But maybe it hadn't been harmless. Maybe Arthur had interpreted the flirting in a different way, or worse, maybe Eames hadn't meant it to be harmless at all. Maybe he'd been trying to remind Arthur and everyone around them of their exact relationship and what they meant to each other.

 

"Fuck you!" he barked and immediately turned to pace across the room so he could buy some time and get his brain to kick into gear. He picked up a glass and set it back down before he did something stupid like whip it across the room at a wall. Eames rounded on Arthur and stalked toward him as he waved a finger and shouted. " _Fuck you_ , Arthur. Do you have any idea what I went through when you left? I almost bloody—" Eames stopped, frustrated and unable to articulate what he felt. He'd almost died, is what he wanted to say, but it sounded so melodramatic and petulant that he found himself embarrassed by the idea of actually saying the words. 

 

Arthur watched his face, and when his features softened, Eames realized he didn't need to say anything. As usual, the point man read him perfectly. All the fight drained out of him and he sighed, defeated. "I wanted you since the moment I saw you," he said instead.

 

When Arthur stepped toward him, Eames readily wrapped his arms around his waist and savored the moment when their bodies slotted together perfectly. He was bigger these days — his shoulders wider and his frame adorned with bulky muscle, but it was as if Arthur's body took note and had the good grace to transform in a way that meant he still fit exactly right in Eames' arms. Or maybe he was just a bloody romantic and a fool, and always had been when it came to Arthur.

 

They didn't say anything after that. Instead, Arthur kissed his neck and mouthed wetly at his chest as he pealed away the bathrobe and left Eames standing naked before him. He was already embarrassingly hard — partly from seeing Arthur in his hotel room and partly from the fight. The point man instantly noticed and smirked wickedly before he gripped the man and slowly backed toward the bed, gently guiding him by his cock. A different time, a different place, it might been humiliating to be led around by his dick like some kind of unthinking animal, but in that moment, with Arthur gazing heatedly at him, all he could focus on was his length pulsating in Arthur's hot little hand.

 

"I'm gonna fuck you," he murmured because that was literally the only coherent thought in his head.

 

Arthur splayed across the bed and smiled at him, like they hadn't just been screaming in each other's faces, and this was years ago in their London flat and they were all each other had. Eames found himself desperately wanting that to be true, even if it meant he'd have to kill men for Georgey. He'd do that if it meant he could have Arthur again.

 

Eames grabbed the front of the point man's vest and yanked it open, sending the small buttons flying across the room. A soft cry of objection escaped Arthur's lips, but Eames couldn't process what he was saying because he'd moved on to the undershirt. He grabbed and pulled until the fabric gave way in his hands, and Eames became dimly aware that Arthur was struggling and cursing his name. He easily pinned his arms down and kept tearing at Arthur's fine clothing until they were gone — totally obliterated — and he could touch the familiar plains of the man's naked flesh. _This_ Eames understood. This was familiar to him.

 

"You asshole," Arthur said beneath him, but Eames could tell he was smiling out of the corner of his eye. "That suit cost more than your next three jobs combined." The point man reached up to stroke his cheeks and Eames startled a bit because his hands were _freezing_. It only occurred to him a moment later that Arthur wasn't cold, but rather his own flesh was burning. He was sweating, drops of perspiration running down his temples.

 

Arthur gazed up at him, concerned. "I don't care," Eames responded hoarsely and leaned down to kiss him. Arthur shifted beneath him to kick off his shoes and Eames leaned back so he could help and peel off his socks. When he glanced up and saw Arthur smiling at him, dimples on display, the forger bent down to kiss his ankle, and then his calf. His lips trailed along Arthur's stomach, chest — across a lovely, pink nipple — clavicle, and finally, his lips.

 

He felt wrecked and they hadn't even done anything yet. It was just the overwhelmingness of everything: inception, being with Arthur again, seeing him every day and not being able to touch him. Eames hated it. He felt like he was living a shadow of his former life. Arthur gripped the back of his head and slid his tongue into Eames' mouth, pulling a pained moan from the man.

 

Drawing back with a gentle nip his lower lips, Arthur frowned at him. "You okay?" he whispered, but the question faded into a moan when Eames ground his hips forward and rubbed their erections together. He didn't want to talk about his feelings or fears. All he wanted was to be buried to the hilt inside Arthur and forget about the rest of it.

 

When he reached for the nightstand's drawer and found the lubricant, Arthur threw him off balance, rolled, and straddled Eames' waist. He found himself on his back, staring up at Arthur dumbly. The point man leaned back and grinned down at him cheekily. "Gonna bottom from the top, love?" Eames asked, forgetting the tube so he could stroke Arthur's nice thighs.

 

Arthur hummed in the affirmative as he busied himself tracing fingertips along Eames' chest and stomach, following the lines and loops of the man's tattoos. "Go on then," Eames encouraged and reached back to give the point man's rear a firm squeeze. "Show me you want it."

 

Eames focused on taking slow, even breaths as he watched Arthur coat his fingers with lube and then reached back to work himself open, his pink lips falling open as he moaned, cheeks flushed beneath his dark lashes when his eyes shut and he furrowed his brow. Arthur fingered himself for a while before he gave a frustrated little sigh and looked at Eames. "Can't find the spot?" he asked, gripping Arthur's narrow hips. The point man shook his head a little and Eames felt his thighs quiver. "Need my cock?" he whispered and a sound left Arthur's lips that Eames could only describe as a whimper. Then the young man nodded. "Say it," Eames commanded, reaching back to grip Arthur's wrist and pull his fingers from his hole.

 

"I need your cock," he rasped and slumped forward when Eames moved to grip his length and press the head between the young man's spread cheeks. When he ran the tip of his cock along the crevice and felt a little dip, Arthur gasped, and he knew he'd found the right spot. He pushed the tip in and Arthur moaned loudly — loud enough for the neighbor's to hear, and the thought gave Eames a thrill. "Let me hear you, pengting," he said as he drew out the tip and pushed it back in. 

 

He fucked Arthur with just the head for a while until the point man writhed against him and pinched ruthlessly at his nipple. "Stop it. Fuck me properly," he groaned, and Eames gasped in response. Arthur could be a nasty little shit sometimes. 

 

Without warning, Eames thrust into him, drawing a surprised cry from Arthur. He pumped his hips upward from the bed, jostling Arthur so that the young man had to cling to his shoulders and chest for balance. "Oh God," he whined, scrambling for purchase until he finally got his feet positioned on the bed and he bounced back to meet Eames' firm thrusts. Arthur dropped down on him aggressively, pinning Eames to the bed, and the forger was only too pleased to allow it. He laid there, gripping Arthur by the waist to drag him down and bury his cock nice and deep inside. 

 

"Fuck yeah, pengting. Ride my cock," he growled, breathless and awed. Arthur looked beautiful — shameless and aroused, his head thrown back as he undulated his hips and took Eames' entire length. For the millionth time, Eames found himself wondering why it couldn't always be like this — the two of them together, like it had been when they ran away together as children.

 

Arthur's erection bobbed as he bounced and Eames gripped it firmly, stroking as the point man bucked atop him. "Oh, _fuck,_ " Arthur hissed, clawing at Eames' chest in warning, but the man simply smirked in response.

 

"Go on, pet. Come for me." Eames pumped his fist until Arthur's cry grew high-pitched and desperate, and then the young man was coming across his stomach and Eames' fist.

 

Arthur felt boneless when Eames sat up and gathered him in his arms. Without pulling out, he pitched forward until Arthur was pinned beneath him, and he continued to thrust into him, drawing fucked out little moans from the point man. Eames buried his face against Arthur's neck, a single sustained groan pouring from his lips when he started to come. His orgasm felt like it lasted for ages, and Arthur made sure to use his interior muscle to squeeze him gently, milking him through it in the way Eames loved.

 

They hadn't used a condom. Eames never even asked if he should anymore. 

 

"Say no one else fucks you," he murmured against Arthur's ear, delighting in the little shiver that ran through the other man's body.

 

Arthur stroked his back in slow, wide circles. "There's no one else, Eames," he said softly with such sincerity that Eames believed him immediately. When he pulled out, Eames groaned and fell onto his back.

 

"Oh my days," he moaned and wrapped an arm around Arthur's shoulders, the younger man laughing at him. 

 

"I remember that. Means it was especially good sex," he whispered before kissing Eames' chest and shoulder.

 

Eames grinned at him and kissed his brow and lips before he closed his eyes. In that moment, he didn't care about the endless complexities of inception, or dreamsharing. He had Arthur, and Arthur had him, and everything was perfect and as it should be.

 

 

***

 

They took the job to the final stages of execution, and even managed to plant the concept of _loyalty_ in Paul Bagrov's mind, but they weren't deep enough and the idea was too complex to take. Arthur looked like he knew the plan was doomed for failure upon waking, and he remained grim and silent as the team packed up and wiped the office down for fingerprints.

 

The team scattered afterward, and Eames didn't have an opportunity to say goodbye. He simply boarded a connecting flight to London on his long trip back to Mombasa.

 

A week later, Arthur showed up at his apartment to personally deliver his check — a completely unnecessary formality and they both knew it. Eames didn't address that fact because he knew Arthur would want to dissect what happened. The young man hated failing, and he rarely did it, so he'd want to revisit the scene of the crime.

 

"It worked in one sense," Arthur said from his location in an armchair before taking a sip from the cup of tea Eames made him. The forger watched him curiously from his spot on the couch, ankle crossed over his knee casually. "The idea of loyalty stuck, but our intention got muddled. Paul wanted to be loyal, but to his own desires. The inception seemed to solidify his desire to leave."

 

Eames nodded, rubbing at his chin thoughtfully where a beard had begun to grow. "Right, so he thought: _I must be loyal to my own desires_."

 

Arthur nodded and set down the cup on Eames' table. "One of those unknown variables we can't control. No two people's definition of loyalty is the same."

 

He tried not to think about that statement too deeply. Instead, the forger stood, collected the empty tea cup, and walked it into the kitchen. When he returned, Arthur was standing in the middle of the room. The younger man looked very serious, and Eames' sixth sense for impending doom kicked into high gear. He coped by making a light, dismissive statement. "Ah well, pet. Don't worry. It's not your fault. Really couldn't have been helped, and besides, we got paid." They really should have been grateful for that much. Normally, a failed job meant no payment, but Jacob Weinreich seemed to think the end of GCS meant the beginning of his new life as a humble man who always paid his debts. He was truly the last line in a dying breed of noble CEOs.

 

"I've been thinking…" Arthur began, and the warning sirens inside Eames' head ratcheted up to a critical level. 

 

"Is that right?" he answered, unable to keep the edge from his voice. He could already feel a scream building in his chest, his muscles tightening in anticipation of a fight. He'd wreck his apartment. He'd throw pieces of furniture out of the window onto the street. He'd scream until the cops came and had to subdue him.

 

"Eames.." Arthur whispered, and he had that damn _gentle_ tone in his voice that meant he felt sorry for Eames, which pissed him off even more. He had that same look in his eyes he'd had that night in Minnesota when Eames nearly confessed something silly like _I can't live without you_. "I know it's difficult for you when we're separated, and things are…Dom needs me right now, and I can't be here for you."

 

He wanted to pick up the Ming Vase he'd nicked from a local art dealer and smash it against the floor. He wanted to rage and shout until everyone in Mombasa heard tales about the mad Englishman, but he knew doing so would frighten Arthur, and then he hated himself for still caring about Arthur. Arthur, who was leaving, and for _Dom_ , of all people.

 

In that moment, he hated them both. 

 

"It's better this way," Arthur concluded softly.

 

Eames laughed, furious when he felt tears brimming in his eyes. "No, pet, this is so much worse."

 

The point man crossed the room, and Eames felt his anger burn away when the younger man touched his face, cupping it so he could tenderly run his fingers along Eames' cheeks. He found himself helplessly thinking: _You can't leave. We're supposed to be together._ The forger had always prided himself on taking care of Arthur, but in many ways, he was still a child with naive thoughts on soul mates and destiny.

 

"You'll forget about me eventually," Arthur said sadly and unconvincingly because they both knew that was a bloody lie. Eames felt desperate, realizing that this was it — these were his final moments with Arthur. All those years fighting and running, and now it was falling apart and he didn't even know why. He wanted to feel anger at Arthur for keeping the truth from him, but he had no right. For years, he'd kept the truth about his work and Georgey from the young man, and then everything blew up in their faces.

 

"Why are you doing this?" he asked, grabbing Arthur by the biceps to hold him in place, like he could force the point man to stay with him forever. 

 

Arthur refused to look at him for a moment, his gaze fixated instead at Eames' chest. He seemed lost in thought for a moment before his brow furrowed. "It's like the job…" he said softly, and Eames released him so he could take Arthur's hand in his own. When he laced their fingers, the point man looked up. "Different definitions of loyalty," the younger man whispered. 

 

Eames stared at him in confusion. There was nothing _loyal_ about leaving him, and again he was seized by the certainty that he only understood a small sliver of Arthur's life, and that knowledge drove him mad. 

 

"I'm not doing this to hurt you," Arthur said, his voice wavering, and Eames quickly dropped his hand. Arthur didn't get to _cry_ when he was the one leaving. He repeated this to himself as he stalked across the room, settling by the window so he could stare down at the bustling street. _Arthur didn't get to cry_ when he was the one leaving. 

 

"I don't want to work with you again," Eames said flatly as he watched a small boy approach a fruit stand located on the dirt road. The boy was maybe twelve, thirteen-years-old. He was dirty and poor — maybe an orphan. The vender chased him away, and Eames was totally unsurprised. That's how the world treated unloved little boys.

 

The room was silent and Eames found himself praying that Arthur would leave without fanfare — simply shut the door behind himself on the way out. But the universe never tired of punishing Eames.

 

"I love you," Arthur said quietly before he left, the door shutting quietly behind him, Eames' back the last thing he saw before he left.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second time Eames and Arthur tried Inception.

****

Eames didn't see Arthur for years after their fight. He busied himself by fucking off in Mombasa with Yusuf, drinking too much, and saying nasty, condescending things about Arthur behind his back whenever a dreamer had the misfortune to mention his ex-lover's name in his company. Eames was smart, though. He always made sure to say these disparaging things with a cocky smile on his lips, so people began to theorize that perhaps the two men were old rivals — extending back to their military days, because everyone always assumed they were military. 

 

After all, where else would two men with no state records learn to shoot? Surely, they had been special ops. Eames never saw a reason to correct the record. Better his associates think that than the truth — he and Arthur were the trash no one else wanted.

 

There were times he drank until he blacked out, awoke in his bed, and prayed to see someone — anyone — naked beside him. Maybe, he thought, if he slept with someone, it would help him get over Arthur. But he always awoke alone. Yusuf said he'd witnessed times when Eames actually had some young pretty thing in his lap, clearly eager for it, and he'd simply stood and walked out of the establishment — never making an excuse or even saying goodbye. 

 

Eames never remembered those times.

 

He worked the odd job when cash ran low, but mostly he laid around, drunk and bloated. He'd forget to shave for days at a time and his clothing lost its polished exterior, becoming creased and faded. Eames felt tired all the time, and when he caught a glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror, he looked oily and ancient.

 

"You look awful," Yusuf summarized one day.

 

Eames responded by flipping him the bird.

 

In apology, the chemist bought him an entire carton of cigarettes, and Eames called him _lovely_ and _handsome_ and a host of other compliments as they stood on his balcony and he wrestled off the plastic from a pack with not a little amount of desperation. Yusuf simply watched him dispassionately and waited until the forger had lit a cigarette before he spoke.

 

"Mallorie Cobb is dead," he said, squinting up at the clear blue sky. It was, as most days in Mombasa tended to be, hot as all hell. Despite this fact, Eames was dressed in a salmon undershirt and a heavy wool blazer. He found dressing in layers seemed to suit his physique better these days, meaning the stylistic choice hid his paunch. Somewhere around thirty, his metabolism had gone on strike, and he hadn't adjusted to the change yet.

 

His brows rose as he took a long drag and exhaled through his nose. "You're joking."

 

Yusuf shook his head and leaned against the concrete railing of the balcony and stared down at the street. "Nah, mate. It's true. Heard it through the grapevine. People are saying Cobb killed her." He glanced over at Eames. "Think he's capable of something like that?"

 

Eames ashed to the side and shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe. Haven't seen him in years. I don't know his _situation_ ," and he may have spat the last word with a tad more hostility than he intended. Over the years, somehow Dom saving Arthur had become Dom _kidnapping_ Arthur — at least in Eames' opinion. Before Dominic Cobb, his life had been perfect — well, aside from working for a murderous gangster, but his selective memory glossed over those little unpleasantries. 

 

Anyway, before Dom, Arthur had been _his,_ and that was all that mattered.

 

Yusuf hummed thoughtfully. "Well, now he's on the run with Arthur."

 

That caught Eames' attention immediately. He dropped the cigarette down to the street without checking to see if there was a vender or someone else standing below. "Arthur? Why the bloody hell is Arthur involved?" 

 

"Dunno, mate. All I heard is Cobb and Arthur are on the run and taking dodgy jobs," Yusuf clasped his hands together and gave them a little rub before standing straight again. "Anyway, casino?"

 

Eames was distracted for a moment as he stared at Yusuf's shoes. Arthur was on the run — with bloody Cobb. Mallorie was dead. He thought back to the last time he'd seen Arthur — how worn and fatigued he had seemed.

 

He heard the other man's voice in his head: _Mal needs him right now_. Then Eames thought back to the first time he met Cobb, and he remembered the love reflected in his eyes when he spoke of his then-fiance. Something twisted in his gut, but he kept his thoughts to himself. 

 

"Let's go."

 

***

He really shouldn't have been surprised when Cobb showed up with a job proposition, and not just any job, mind you, but bloody buggering _Inception._ Worse, Cobb was being a total asshole and dropping Arthur's name into the mix precisely because he knew that would capture the forger's attention, and then he threw in a little dig about Arthur thinking Inception was impossible — understandable, given their failed first attempt.

 

"You've done it before?" Cobb asked.

 

Eames nodded a little and kept the details deliberately vague. "We tried it. Got the idea in place, but it didn't take."

 

He probably should have come clean and told Cobb everything — that Arthur had worked the job with him, and he was probably right that Inception was impossible, but for some reason, he didn't. All he could think about was that Arthur hadn't wanted Cobb to know about the job, and so he honored that wish. Why he then decided to double down and declare Inception _was_ possible with the right dose of imagination — what did that even _mean_? — was totally beyond him. Maybe he was simply feeling bitter and angry, and he wanted to upset Arthur.

 

And he really couldn't think of a better way of doing that than accepting the job.

 

***

He thought about running out to buy a new suit — maybe dropping five or ten pounds by throwing out his bottles of scotch. At the last minute, however, he decided against those grand plans. The horrible side of him wanted Arthur to see exactly what he'd become. He'd swagger in to their place of business — unshaven and wrinkled like the ruins of a once great empire. _You did this, pengting_ , he'd say silently with his eyes.

 

It was a petty and immature plan and Eames loved it dearly.

 

Of course, he should have known it was destined for failure.

 

When he eventually reached the warehouse, Arthur was standing beside a petite little brunette, who he learned was Ariadne. As for the point man — he barely reacted when he looked at Eames. Groomed immaculately as per usual, Arthur's fingers were cool when they gripped hands in formal greeting.

 

"Mr. Eames," the man said icily and Eames' brows raised in amusement. _Mister, was it?_ He felt like answering _I used to bend you over our kitchen island, you little shit_ , but he didn't. He couldn't — not when he recalled the pain and weariness in Arthur's eyes when he'd described how difficult it was for him to be taken seriously in their profession. Teasing was one thing, but he could never, ever hurt Arthur like that, not even after their terrible break up. 

 

He tried not to think about why that was the case.

 

Their employer was a billionaire Japanese businessman named Saito, and Eames distrusted him immediately, primarily because the man seemed quite taken with Cobb, but _especially_ Arthur. Any idea the point man spouted, Saito approved instantly. Eames would be standing around, pretending to read a file in his hands, but really he kept glancing over to Arthur's work station where their benefactor had situated himself. He didn't know what they were discussing, but Saito looked pleased, and then he touched Arthur's shoulder.

 

Eames connected the dots. He hadn't seen Arthur in years, and apparently the man had been quite busy bagging himself a filthy rich sugar daddy. He imagined Arthur as a kept boy — clad in only the finest designer suits as he lounged around Saito's Tokyo penthouse until daddy came home and they fucked in their king size bed.

 

He had a _very_ active imagination, and sometimes it got him in trouble.

 

"I'm getting coffee," he declared, evidently too loudly because Ariadne startled and knocked over her model.

 

Later, he'd wanted to kiss Cobb when he said there would be no room for tourists on the job, but Saito simply shut down the extractor because he was rich, which meant he had all the power. Saito wanted to ride along, so he was coming along into the dream and he would be present on the last level with Eames when they attempted to plant an idea in Robert Fischer's mind.

 

Yusuf patted his back sympathetically. They hadn't discussed the Arthur situation once since their arrival, but somehow he figured the chemist knew exactly what was on his mind.

 

"Just try to preserve some dignity," Yusuf said below his breath.

 

"Piss off," Eames hissed.

 

When they were walking across the tarmac toward Saito's private jet — _of-bloody-course_ , Eames thought angrily — he glanced to the side and saw Arthur gazing back at him curiously. That was a first, as the point man had been doing nothing but regarding him with polite detachment since he'd first arrived on the scene.

 

"Why did you take the job?" Arthur asked, his voice raised over the sound of the jet's engines.

 

Eames shrugged. "Wanted to give inception another go," he said, desperately wanting that to be true. The truth was he hadn't cared if Cobb killed Mal or not, but he did care that Arthur was in danger following Cobb into dodgier and dodgier situations. He may not have been a billionaire playboy, but he'd always take care of Arthur in his own way, and while he didn't have private jets or Tokyo penthouses, he had a talent for forging, and they needed a bloody good forger for Inception.

 

They paused before the plane's staircase and Arthur looked at him. Eames tried to look confident and calm as he stared back, but he had a feeling the point man saw through the facade.

 

"Okay," Arthur said simply before he climbed the steps.

 

***

 

It was much more difficult to be disingenuous inside a dream because one's true feelings had a habit of creeping to the surface. The added stress of _bloody Cobb_ telling them, by the way, they'd all drop into limbo if killed didn't help in the slightest. It seemed the extractor had not outgrown his habit of withholding information and putting himself ahead of his teammates. He was especially frustrated that Arthur didn't even look surprised when Cobb revealed this information. It appeared as though Cobb hadn't been taking care of Arthur all these years, and Eames had to suppress the urge to strangle the man when he reached that conclusion.

 

Interestingly, Arthur seemed equally distracted by his presence in the dream as Eames did by having him around. When projections began firing at their vehicle, he heard the point man call _his_ name — not Saito's.

 

Later, when Eames saw Arthur sitting too close to Ariadne, he slipped into the skin of his pretty young lady and strutted by wearing six-inch-heels, attempting to catch Arthur's eye like a mating peacock. When he glanced over his shoulder and saw Ariadne lean over to kiss Arthur, a pulse of rage surged through him.

 

After that, he grew desperate and even threw himself at Saito inside an elevator with the absurd hope that the man would reciprocate and Eames could run screaming to Arthur: _See! See?! He's not worthy of you!_

 

He couldn't figure out _who_ Arthur was fucking, exactly —Ariadne or Saito, but he was confident it was one of them. The point man was too lovely to be unattached after all these years.

 

When he laid across the hotel carpet and watched Arthur slide the line in his arm, he had a bizarre feeling of deja vu, and he thought back to their London flat — the three of them new to the world of dreamsharing when every discovery had filled them with a sense of wonder and purpose. He wanted to grab Arthur and pull him down — kiss him and confess how badly he'd missed him, but that wasn't appropriate and they didn't have a moment to waste.

 

He smiled, utterly brimming with glee when Arthur teased him, saying to go to sleep _Mister Eames_ in his naughty tone. It was the nicest thing anyone had said to him in ages. He could tell Arthur _cared_ if he fell into limbo. Maybe there was hope after all.

 

The really crazy part was: it worked. Eames personally witnessed the moment Fischer found the pinwheel and broke down crying. Besides his memories with Arthur, it was the happiest, most fulfilling moment of his life. They'd managed to pull off the impossible.

 

When they awoke, he saw Arthur and Cobb exchange a meaningful glance, and then Saito reach for the plane phone and place a call. Eames remained quiet and gazed out the window until they landed.

 

In the airport, they acted the parts of strangers, though Eames gave a little nod to Cobb on his way out of the terminal. The forger saw Arthur standing at the luggage carousel, gazing at Cobb's receding back. Cobb never once looked back, but he supposed he could understand his eagerness to get home to his children. Still, it boiled his blood a bit to see Arthur lingering as though unsure of his next move now that the man he'd been chasing for years had essentially ditched him.

 

Arthur had been following orders for so long that he probably forgot how to be on his own.

 

He waited and watched for a bit, expecting Saito to arrive any moment to collect him, or Ariadne to appear and pick up where they left off in the dream. But that never happened. Arthur remained alone, watching the slow moving conveyer belt, looking worn and a little deflated. Eames approached quietly and simply stood beside him — allowing Arthur to make the first move. If he wanted to pretend to be strangers, Eames wouldn't stop him.

 

Eventually, Arthur sighed. "I hate checking my bag."

 

Well, it was hardly a grand romantic overture, but for Arthur, it was an effort. "Takes ages," Eames agreed quietly because he couldn't tell if they were still playing the roles of strangers or not. This could have passed for idle chit chat between two travellers.

 

"You did a really great job," Arthur confessed quietly, his gaze fixed on the carousel. 

 

 _Ah_. So not polite strangers then. "Thank you," he replied. "So did you."

 

They were quiet after that until Arthur's bag arrived and he picked it up and set it by his feet. When they looked at each other, Eames took a moment to really examine the other man's face. His eyes were bruised from fatigue and his skin was pale. All in all, he looked like a man who had been running very fast for quite a long time.

 

"Have a drink with me," Arthur stated and Eames nodded because he didn't trust himself to speak.

 

They took a taxi to a nearby hotel, which broke protocol, but Eames knew it didn't matter because no one was chasing them. Inception had worked, and Arthur had invited him up to his room even though there was a perfectly good bar located in the lobby.

 

Eames sat in an armchair once inside Arthur's room because he didn't want to be presumptuous and sit on the bed. He watched the other man pour tiny bottles of alcohol into glasses and then thanked him when Arthur placed one of the tumblers in his hand. His heart hammered inside his chest as he took a deep swig of whisky and told himself to stop carrying on like a school girl. He'd been with Arthur in the biblical sense hundreds of times, so this wasn't anything extraordinary. They were just going to have a chat. 

 

Right. Then why was he so bloody nervous?

 

Arthur sat on the edge of the bed and stared down at his glass. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you about Mal. About…how bad things got."

 

Eames nodded slightly and shifted in his chair. "Is that why you…kept running off?"

 

The point man sighed and nodded a little before bringing the glass to his lips and sipping the alcohol. He winced after swallowing, and when he spoke, his voice took on a thick rasp. "I felt…obligated to help Cobb." When Arthur saw Eames scowl at that, he smirked. "I know you never liked him, but…Cobb got me out of the country after Georgey came after us, and don't forget, he was driving when we saved your ass."

 

Eames had to reticently admit that was true. He polished off his drink and then looked back at Arthur, steeled by the alcohol. "What did you say to Georgey?" Eames knew the point man would catch his meaning. When he'd been lying on the grass, totally convinced he was dying, he'd heard Arthur approach the car and speak with the man before he shot him.

 

Arthur didn't bat an eyelash when he answered. "I said this is what you get for fucking with us."

 

Eames stared at him before he burst out laughing. For a moment, the point man looked confused, but then a slow grin broke out across his face. "You did, didn't you?" Eames gasped between deep belly laughs that caused him to hunch over a bit so he could catch his breath.

 

"Of course," Arthur said, proud and defiant. 

 

When he'd calmed down enough to regain control of his breathing, Arthur stood and plucked the glass from his hand so he could pour them both another round. Eames watched his back, and feeling warm and happy from the alcohol, his gaze slid south to the twin, plump globes of Arthur's ass. He wondered if it was even possible for the man to be wearing underwear beneath slacks that fit his rear so snugly. As Arthur began to turn toward him, Eames slid his gaze somewhere more respectful — to the terrible painting of a lake secured above the bed.

 

"Cheers," he said, accepting the glass of booze.

 

Arthur returned to the bed and sat on the edge and Eames took a second to eye him before he spoke. "Are you sleeping with Saito?" he asked, because he was sick of dancing around the subject, and he felt he deserved a head start if the businessman was sending a squad of goons after him for stealing away his precious Arthur.

 

The point man nearly spit out a mouthful of liquor, and then he spent the next thirty seconds coughing violently. "What?!" he finally answered, seeming to be genuinely appalled, and Eames immediately felt foolish. It was clear from Arthur's response that he'd been a tad irrational about his relationship with the billionaire.

 

"Well then…Ariadne?"

 

Again, Arthur look horrified. "She's, like, twelve!" 

 

Eames rolled his eyes. "Arthur, she's in her twenties."

 

"Well, _still_ …" he said, frowning disapprovingly at Eames. "Are you interested in her?"

 

"Erm, no," Eames chuckled. "I'm afraid Miss Ariadne lacks some essential bits I require in the bedroom, as you well know, Arthur." He was trying to lighten the mood, but judging by Arthur's expression, it wasn't working. The other man scowled at him, a deep frown set upon his lips.

 

"What are we even talking about?" the American asked, and it was a fair question. 

 

"You kissed Ariadne," Eames responded, since they were coming to the heart of the matter. The entire time on Inception, they'd engaged in a pissing contest with constant barrages of snark, and then Eames accelerated things by shaking his tits around the dreamscape, and then bloody Arthur had kissed bloody Ariadne, and here they were.

 

"That was…it wasn't…" Arthur babbled before he sighed and dropped his gaze to the glass cradled in his hands. "That was a mistake."

 

"Ah, I see," Eames said, voice dripping with sarcasm, and Arthur winced upon hearing it. 

 

He looked up at the forger. "I was trying to make you jealous."

 

The confession succeeded in temporarily stunning Eames. He'd been so preoccupied formulating a backstory for Arthur's romantic conquests that it never occurred to him the other man might be doing the same for him. But the very idea seemed absurd. Arthur draped himself in thousands of dollars in designer fabrics. He was svelte and gorgeous and looked all of eighteen. He could have anyone _—_ absolutely _anyone_ , including Saito if he set his mind to it. But Eames…Eames felt ancient and swollen standing beside the likes of Arthur. He hadn't taken care of himself and it was beginning to catch up with him. How could Arthur possibly think he was some kind of stud running around the continent of Africa?

 

"You really thought I was with Saito?" Arthur asked softly, a little smile hanging on his lips, coaxing his dimple forth.

 

Eames laughed and shook his head a bit. "I was utterly convinced. He seemed very taken with you."

 

The small smile blossomed into a cheeky grin. "He's married to some twenty-year-old model. I saw a photo of her once. She's _gorgeous_ ," Arthur said, leaning over to set his empty glass on the dresser. When he glanced to the side of the room, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in a mirror and sighed, the smile evaporating. "Sometimes I see my reflection and don't recognize myself."

 

Eames knew exactly what he meant, but he thought the comment described his own situation better. In his opinion, Arthur looked exactly as he had years ago — perhaps a bit worn around the edges, but that wasn't anything a couple of weeks of good, solid sleep wouldn't fix. "You look the same to me," he mumbled before burying his mouth against the glass to finish the whisky.

 

Arthur watched him closely before he answered. "I'm not like you, though. I have to wear expensive suits and comb my hair a certain way so my ears don't stick out," he said, smiling thinly. "You show up dressed in thrift shop clothes and look perfect." Clearly, the man hadn't meant to be so candid because he instantly flushed and looked down at his hands. 

 

He didn't want Arthur to say anymore because Eames decided right then and there they'd been stupid enough about each other for too long. He set aside his glass and stood, crossing the room until he was in front of Arthur. The point man slowly raised his chin until his dark eyes settled upon Eames' face, and the forger gently cupped his face so he could trace his thumbs across Arthur's warm cheekbones.

 

"You're so lovely. How do you not know?" Eames asked quietly, rhetorically, not expecting or wanting an answer because he simply wanted Arthur to know that's how he felt.

 

When Arthur reached forward to unfasten his belt, Eames ran his fingers carefully through Arthur's hair, working the strands free until they began to fall in familiar waves against his cheeks. He exhaled slowly as he watched Arthur lean forward and mouth at his crotch through his briefs, getting the material wet with saliva as he sucked sloppily against the shape of Eames' clothed erection. The man seemed _starved_ for his cock, and that thought alone made Eames feel light-headed.

 

"Suck on it," he commanded, thinking it was miraculous that his voice sounded so steady. Arthur tugged down his briefs and promptly swallowed his cock, which very nearly caused Eames' knees to buckle. At the last second, he steadied himself and grabbed the sides of Arthur's head. "Fucking hell," he gasped as Arthur's dark head began bobbing rapidly, taking him deep inside the warmth of his mouth and throat.

 

Arthur's lips made obscene slurping sounds as he moved and Eames groaned helpless, transfixed, while he watched him. The point man was red in the face when he opened his eyes and looked up at Eames — his lips wet and spread wide around his girth, saliva pressing out of his mouth and covering his face as he choked himself on Eames' dick. The sight made his balls tighten and Eames grabbed his hair and eased him back.

 

"Turn over," he growled and Arthur scrambled onto his stomach so he was draped over the edge of the bed. Eames could feel him shaking as he unfastened his trousers and slid the fabric over his ass. Sure enough, he was bare underneath and Eames gave his naked rear a firm swat. Arthur moaned softly as he rubbed the reddened flesh where gooseflesh formed.

 

"Pocket…pocket…" the man panted and Eames picked up the discarded trousers from the floor and felt inside the pockets until he found a small tube. He smirked as he spread the lubricant across his fingers, wondering how long Arthur had been planning for this moment. 

 

He worked a finger inside Arthur and took his time stretching and coating him as the man writhed across the bed's comforter. Eames bunched his dress shirt at the back and pinned him in place when he slid a second finger inside. Arthur whined and spread his thighs to accommodate him, crying sharply when Eames crooked his fingers and rubbed deep inside him. "Missed me?" he whispered and pressed a third finger into Arthur's hole.

 

"Oh, fuck… _Eames_.." Arthur gasped, his cheek pressed to the mattress, tie still attached beneath the collar of his shirt and extended beside him like a flag of surrender.

 

Eames withdrew his hand and gripped himself, pressing the head of his cock past the tight ring of muscle and then draping himself across Arthur's back as he snapped his hips forward and buried himself in one rough stroke. He shouted over Arthur's yelp and grabbed the man's wrists to keep them pinned to the bed as he thrust into him. Arthur's voice was muffled against the mattress, and broke as Eames split him on his cock, but he could distinctly make out the words: _fuck me hard._

 

He obliged. All of his running and boozing hadn't helped him to escape the thought of Arthur, and he'd fantasized about this moment countless nights in Mombasa when he'd collapsed in bed and used his hand as he thought of his lover. Even when they'd parted, Arthur had been his and his alone. He knew now no one had touched the point man — he could tell from the grip of Arthur's body and the way he was _screaming_ beneath him — maybe crying, Eames couldn't tell because he couldn't really see his face.

 

Eames fucked him until Arthur was balanced on the tips of his toes and when he felt the man clamp down around his dick and quake, Eames knew he was coming hard. He slowed his strokes and leaned back to watch Arthur's hole spasm around his cock. "Fuck," he groaned and stood upright behind Arthur's prostrated figure. "Fuck yerself on my cock, pengting," he said, the chav in him slipping out. Arthur moaned softly, but he moved when Eames released his wrists. The forger lightly gripped his waist as Arthur braced himself on his hands and began thrusting backward.

 

It was such a pretty sight, Arthur's firm rear falling back against him, swallowing his length. Eames ran his thumbs along the dimples above Arthur's ass and groaned deeply. "Like that, pet. Just like that." Though he'd just come, Arthur was moaning softly and arched his back so his cheeks spread and Eames could have a full, unadulterated view. "You want me to come inside you?" he asked, already feeling himself seep inside Arthur's hole. He was so, so close.

 

"Fuck, yes. Fill me up, please," Arthur whined, filthy and lovely and perfect. 

 

That was the thing about Arthur and Eames. They could play the parts of badass dreamsharers and dress in costumes to pretend they were other people, but when it came down to it, this was the real them — two people, helplessly in love, counting down the minutes until they could tear each other apart. Everything else was a distraction.

 

Eames grabbed Arthur by the waist and held him still so he could fuck him hard until he came — his hips violently slapping against Arthur's ass until the skin reddened and he came with a roar. Arthur collapsed face-first on the bed and moaned softly as Eames drew his cock out until he could see the come leaking out and then pushed his length back inside, making sure he filled Arthur as deeply as possible.

 

Afterwards, they stripped completely and laid out in the middle of the bed. Arthur gripped him by the charms draped around his neck and pulled Eames on top of him so they could kiss and touch each other everywhere properly. The first time was frenzied, but the second time was slow and gentle, and Eames whispered his love against Arthur's ear. The point man gripped him tightly and told Eames to keep going when the man stopped, concerned that Arthur's face was wet with tears.

 

"I just love you…a lot," Arthur confessed quietly when they laid tangled beneath the covers. 

 

Eames kissed his brow and then his lips. "Come home with me," he whispered to him after they'd separated.

 

"I hate Mombasa," Arthur said, but he was grinning.

 

Eames smiled and slid an arm around his waist. "Fine. Then we'll go somewhere else. Where do you want to live?"

 

Arthur looked thoughtful for a moment before he gazed at Eames, his eyes shining. "Paris," he said quietly and Eames thought of their old flat with the framed illustration of the Eiffel Tower. When they were young, they'd dreamed of seeing France together, and now they had endless funds and time to burn.

 

"Yes," Eames said, thinking that was a perfect place to spend his life with Arthur. "Whatever you want, pengting," he whispered and leaned forward to kiss him again.

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on tumblr! http://theaoidos.tumblr.com/


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